STORIES  OF  THE  HUDSON 


^'SutinysicI/' — Irvitig's  home'  near  Tarrytoun 


Stories  of  the  Hudson 

by 

Washington  Irving 


With   Illustrations 
by  Clifton  Johnson 


New  York 

Dodge  Publishing  Company 

214-220  East  230  Street 


5^ 


Copyright  1912  by 
Dodge  Publishing  Company 


Contents 


PAGB 


Introduction vii 

Communipaw I 

Guests  from  Gibbet  Island 7 

Wolfert's  Roost     .     .     .• 24 

Peter  Stuyvesant's  Voyage  up  the  Hudson  .  47 

The  Chronicle  of  Beam  Island 56 

The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 67 

Dolph  Heyliger iii 

Rip  Van  Winkle 193 

Golden  Dreams 219 


Illustrations 

"Sunnyslde" — Irving's  home  near  Tarrytown 

Frontispiece 


PAGE 


Looking  across  to  New  York  from  Communlpaw  12 

Spiting  Devil,  the  creek  at  the  north  end  of  Man- 
hattan Island 19 

The  rocky  heights  of  Jersey 29 

Anthony's  Nose 33 

Beam  Island         37 

In  Sleepy  Hollow  Churchyard 45 

The  Tappan  Sea 61 

The  bridge  at  Sleepy  Hollow 71 

Storm    King    at   the    northern   gateway  to    the 

Highlands 103 

The  present  Battery 116 

Pollopol's  Island 124 

Albany 133 

The  Catskills 142 

At  the  end  of  the  day 147 

Looking    down    on    the    eastern  valley  from    a 

height  of  the  Catskills 151 

Becalmed 181 


Introduction 

npHIS  collection  of  stories  is  identical  with  a  volume 
-*■  that  Irving  himself  published  in  the  year  1849, 
except  that  the  tale  of  Wolfert's  Roost  has  been  added. 
In  his  foreword  he  attributes  the  stories  to  "the  late 
Diedrich  Knickerbocker,"  and  goes  on  to  say:  "That 
worthy  and  truthful  historian  was  one  of  my  earliest 
and  most  revered  friends,  and  I  owe  many  of  the 
pleasant  associations  in  my  mind  with  this  river  to 
information  derived  in  my  youth  from  that  venerable 
sage.  It  has  recently  occurred  to  me  that  it  would  be 
an  acceptable  homage  to  his  venerated  shade,  to  collect 
in  one  volume  all  that  he  has  written  concerning  the 
river  which  he  loved  so  well.  It  occurred  to  me  also 
that  such  a  volume  might  form  an  agreeable  and  in- 
structive handbook  to  all  intelligent  and  inquiring 
travellers  about  to  explore  the  wonders  and  beauties 
of  the  Hudson.  To  all  such  I  heartily  recommend  it, 
with  my  best  wishes  for  a  pleasant  voyage,  whether 
by  steamboat  or  railroad." 

It  has  been  affirmed  by  that  notable  New  England 
nature  writer,  Thoreau,  that  the  property  a  man 
owns  is  not  simply  what  he  pays  taxes  on,  but  all 
which  he  looks  on  with  enjoyment  of  its  fair  aspect. 


X  Introduction 

In  this  sense  Irving  owned  nearly  all  of  the  Hudson 
Valley  from  New  York  to  Albany.  Rarely  is  the  name 
and  fame  of  an  author  so  closely  associated  with  a 
particular  region  as  is  Washington  Irving's  with  the 
Hudson  River.  He  was  born  on  its  banks  in  New  York 
City,  and  though  he  spent  much  of  his  middle  life  in 
Europe,  he  later  became  a  permanent  dweller  near 
Tarrytown,  almost  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the 
stream  in  a  home  of  his  own  which  he  called  "Sunny- 
side."    In  one  of  his  magazine  contributions  he  says: 

"I  fancy  I  can  trace  much  of  what  is  good  and 
pleasant  in  my  own  heterogeneous  compound  to  my 
early  companionship  with  this  glorious  river.  The 
Hudson  is,  in  a  manner,  my  first  and  last  love,  and 
after  all  my  wanderings  I  return  to  it  with  a  heart- 
felt preference  over  all  other  rivers  in  the  world.  I 
seem  to  catch  new  life  as  I  bathe  in  its  ample  billows 
and  Inhale  the  pure  breezes  of  its  hills." 

Irving  was  the  literary  discoverer  of  the  river,  and 
to  a  very  large  degree  we  have  him  to  thank  for  the 
peculiar  sentiment  and  romance  that  are  associated 
with  it.  Until  his  time  the  wonderful  beauty  of  the 
stream  was  uncelebrated,  and  its  fascinating  history 
and  legends  unrecorded.  His  pen  popularized  the 
charm  of  the  river  that  he  loved  and  glorified,  and 
whether  he  was  writing  fiction  or  simply  interpreting 
facts,  in  either  case  his  lively  imagination  and  gentle 
humor  imparted  an  atmosphere  that  will  always  color 
the  public  impression  of  the  region.  Some  portions  of 
the  valley  appealed  to  him  because  of  their  connection 
with   his  own   life,   others  on   account  of  their  scenic 


Introduction  xi 

attraction,  and  still  others  by  reason  of  some  peculiarity 
of  their  history.  The  Dutch  characteristics  always 
amused  him,  and  a  Dutch  village  or  even  a  farmhouse, 
was  an  incentive  to  delicious  burlesque.  Perhaps  he 
might  have  found  the  Yankee,  or  French,  or  some 
other  race  equally  inspiring  to  humor,  but  it  chanced 
that  the  Dutch  were  in  the  early  days  dominant  in 
his  home  valley. 

The  Dutch  farms  and  communities  are  now  prac- 
tically extinct.  They  have  been  overrun,  crowded 
out,  or  superseded  by  the  inflow  of  other  life.  Natu- 
rally the  greatest  change  has  been  in  and  about  Man- 
hattan Island.  Irving  was  born  in  1783  in  the  lower 
part  of  the  present  city,  in  a  house  on  William  Street 
between  Fulton  and  John  Streets.  At  that  time  the 
place  contained  less  than  twenty-five  thousand  in- 
habitants, and  with  its  quaint,  dormer-windowed 
dwellings,  its  straggling  lanes  and  roads,  and  the 
water  pumps  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  its  appearance 
was  distinctly  rural.  Most  of  the  buildings  were 
clustered  about  the  Battery,  and  the  Irvings  lived  on 
the  northern  outskirts.  Beyond  were  only  country 
residences,  orchards,  and  cornfields. 

Although  in  his  stories  Irving  often  harks  back  to  a 
much  earlier  period,  there  was  still  opportunity  for 
him  in  his  youth  to  get  ample  suggestions  in  life  and 
nature  about  him  for  the  rustic  customs  and  the  mys- 
tery of  forest  and  lonely  shores  he  liked  to  portray. 
Nor  was  his  youthful  knowledge  of  the  river  confined 
to  the  vicinity  of  Manhattan,  for  he  was  only  a  lad 
when  his  acquaintance  began  with  that  broad,  lake- 


XII  Introduction 

like  stretch  of  the  river  known  as  the  Tappan  Sea, 
beside  which  in  later  life  he  was  destined  to  dwell. 
He  had  relatives  in  Tarrytown  whom  he  sometimes 
visited,  and  he  and  a  boy  of  the  family  rambled  with 
guns  or  rods  over  the  hills,  or  rowed  their  boat  along 
the  river  shores.  Trout  abounded  in  the  tributary 
streams,  quail  piped  in  every  cornfield,  and  there  were 
partridges  which  whirred  from  every  invaded  thicket. 
He  attended  the  little  church  at  Sleepy  Hollow;  he 
heard  the  Revolutionary  veterans  fight  their  battles 
over  at  the  tavern  and  the  store;  and  he  saw  the 
market  boat  that  sailed  at  stated  intervals  to  New 
York,  wind  and  weather  permitting,  tie  up  near  his 
relatives'  home,  and  the  farm  wagons  lumber  down  to 
the  landing  with  their  produce. 

When  he  returned  in  1835  from  a  long  sojourn 
abroad  he  bought  "Sunnyside"  with  the  desire  to 
have  rural  quiet,  and  to  indulge  in  the  pleasures  of  a 
real  home  of  his  own.  The  place  was  merely  a  ten- 
acre  farm  on  which  stood  a  small  stone  house  erected 
by  a  former  Dutch  resident.  Irving's  original  inten- 
tion was  that  the  place  should  be  nothing  more  than  a 
summer  retreat,  inexpensive  and  simply  furnished; 
but  he  did  much  more  than  he  at  first  had  in  mind 
doing,  and  it  became  his  permanent  dwelling.  Yet 
whatever  changes  were  made,  its  quaint  Dutch  in- 
dividuality was  carefully  preserved,  and,  as  the  author 
observed,  it  continued  to  be  "as  full  of  angles  and 
corners  as  an  old  cocked  hat."  He  made  it  one  of  the 
snuggest  and  most  picturesque  residences  on  the  river. 
With    its   sheltering   groves    and    secluded    walks    and 


Introduction  xiii 

grassy  glades  and  its  wide-reaching  view  of  the  river 
it  was  an  ideal  home  for  such  a  man  of  letters  as  Irving. 
In  a  short  time  it  had  become  the  dearest  spot  on 
earth  to  him,  and  he  always  left  it  with  reluctance,  and 
returned  to  it  with  eager  delight. 

Since  Irving's  time  the  house  has  been  greatly  en- 
larged, but  the  most  characteristic  portion  of  the  old 
residence  has  been  retained,  and  is  in  front,  so  that 
"Sunnyside"  continues  to  present  the  same  general 
aspect.  The  cosiness  and  retirement  of  the  house  are 
delightful.  It  is  like  a  human  bird's  nest.  The  grounds 
are  ample,  with  many  old  and  lofty  trees,  and  include 
a  brook  that  courses  down  a  rocky  hollow  and  then 
lingers  through  the  lush  weeds  and  grasses  of  a  little 
meadow.  Between  the  plateau  on  which  the  house 
stands  and  the  river,  the  railroad  intervenes,  but  is 
for  the  most  part  screened  from  sight  by  a  thick  growth 
of  trees. 

"Sunnyside"  was  within  the  boundaries  of  Tarry- 
town  until  the  author's  very  last  years.  Then  a  new 
town  in  which  it  was  included  was  set  off  from  the 
older  community,  and  named  Irvington  in  his  honor. 

Sleepy  Hollow,  where  Ichabod  Crane  taught  school 
and  encountered  the  headless  horseman,  is  a  short 
distance  on  the  other  side  of  Tarrytown.  It  used  to 
be  thoroughly  rustic.  Now,  however,  it  is  suburban, 
the  placid  old  Dutch  homesteads  have  disappeared, 
and  the  bridge  where  the  schoolmaster  came  to  grief 
when  pursued  by  the  headless  horseman,  is  no  longer 
a  rude  wooden  structure  in  a  deep  ravine  overhung 
by  trees  and  vines,  but  is  a  substantial  arch  of  stone, 


XIV  Introduction 

across  which  runs  a  broad  exposed  highway.  The 
most  satisfying  relic  of  the  past  is  the  little  Dutch 
church  on  a  knoll  above  the  bridge,  one  of  the  quaintest 
and  best  preserved  historic  buildings  on  this  continent. 
It  is  surrounded  by  the  graves  of  many  generations — 
those  of  the  early  settlers  clustering  thickly  about  the 
edifice,  while  the  newer  graves  overspread  the  long 
slope  rising  beyond.  Near  the  summit  of  the  hill  is 
Irving's  grave,  and  a  well-trodden  path  leads  from  the 
church  to  where  he  rests  amid  the  scenes  which  his 
magic  pen  has  made  famous. 

Not  far  to  the  north  the  Highlands  begin  at  Peek- 
skill,  and  thence  for  twenty  miles  to  Cornwall  the  river 
plays  hide  and  seek  with  the  ancient  rock-ribbed  hills. 
The  river  scenery  is  here  at  its  finest,  and  often  attains 
to  real  sublimity.  Irving  speaks  of  his  first  sail  through 
the  Highlands,  which  occurred  in  1800,  as  "a  time  of 
intense  delight,  I  sat  on  the  deck,"  he  says,  "and 
gazed  with  wonder  and  admiration  at  the  cliffs  im- 
pending far  above  me,  crowned  with  forests,  with 
eagles  sailing  and  screaming  around  them;  or  beheld 
rock  and  tree  and  sky  reflected  in  the  glassy  stream. 
And  then  how  solemn  and  thrilling  the  scene  as  we 
anchored  at  night  at  the  foot  of  these  mountains,  and 
everything  grew  dark  and  mysterious;  and  I  heard  the 
plaintive  note  of  the  whip-poor-will,  or  was  startled 
now  and  then  by  the  sudden  leap  and  heavy  splash  of 
the  sturgeon." 

Soon  after  the  Highlands  are  left  behind,  the  voyager 
on  the  river  begins  to  get  glimpses  of  the  Catskills, 


Introduction  xv 

those  delectable  heights  which  were  the  scene  of  "Rip 
Van  Winkle,"  Irving's  most  famous  bit  of  romance. 
It  seems  reasonably  certain  that  when  he  wrote  he  had 
i  .  mind  the  region  neighboring  that  charming  wilder- 
less  valley,  Kaaterskill  Clove,  and  I  suppose  Rip 
slept  somewhere  near  the  crest  of  the  precipitous  South 
Mountain.  An  old  road  makes  a  zigzag  ascent  to  a 
summit  hotel,  and  half  way  up  is  a  little  hut  which  the 
public  know  as  the  Rip  Van  Winkle  house.  It  is 
snugged  into  a  wild  hollow  with  wooded  cliffs  rising 
around  on  three  sides,  and  a  deep  gorge  dropping  away 
on  the  fourth  side.  The  hut  has  been  there  for  at  least 
fifty  years,  and  no  one  seems  to  have  any  definite 
knowledge  about  its  origin.  Close  to  it  is  a  ruinous 
hotel,  and  both  are  a  good  deal  marked  and  scribbled 
with  names  of  idling  sightseers.  A  rude  path  leads 
up  the  declivity  to  the  left,  and  a  short  scramble  brings 
one  to  a  great  boulder  inscribed  "Rip's  Rock" — the 
supposed  place  where  Rip  had  his  long  sleep. 

"Yes,"  said  one  of  the  local  dwellers  whom  I  ques- 
tioned, "that  little  house  was  where  Rip  lived,  and  the 
rock  was  where  he  slept.  Him  and  his  dog  Snider 
went  up  to  that  rock,  and  he  tied  the  dog  to  a  sapling 
and  lay  down  for  a  nap.  When  he  woke  up  he  looked 
for  his  dog  Snider,  and  he  couldn't  see  anything  of 
him;  and  he  called  to  him  but  got  no  answer.  After 
a  while  he  happened  to  cast  his  eyes  up  in  a  tree  and 
saw  his  dog's  bones  hanging  there.  The  sapling  had 
grown  to  be  a  big  tree  in  twenty  years,  and  as  it  had 
increased  in  height  had  carried  the  dog  up  into  the  air." 


XVI  Introduction 

This  incident  is  not  found  in  Irving's  pages,  and 
doubtless  some  more  recent  genius  with  a  Munchausen 
turn  of  mind  has  developed  what  he  thinks  is  an  im- 
provement on  the  original. 

Probably  just  as  great  a  liberty  is  taken  with  Irving's 
work  when  we  attempt  to  make  his  scene  of  action  fit 
a  particular  spot.  He  truthfully  conveys  the  sentiment 
of  the  region,  but  the  details  are  elusive.  As  it  is  with 
the  setting  of  Rip  Van  Winkle,  so  it  is  with  that  of  the 
other  Irving  stories.  One  seldom  finds  all  that  the 
author  depicts.  Yet  In  spite  of  this  Indefinlteness,  and 
in  spite  of  all  the  changes  wrought  by  the  lapse  of 
years,  the  valley  still  has  In  a  general  way  the  aspect 
that  to  Irving  was  so  inspiring — and  surely  no  one 
travelling  through  the  region  can  afford  not  to  be 
acquainted  with  these  Inimitable  stories  and  descrip- 
tions. 

Clifton  Johnscnt 

Hadley,  Mass. 


Stories  of  the  Hudson 


COMMUNIPAW 

TT  used  to  be  a  favorite  assertion  of  the  venerable 
■*-  Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  that  there  was  no  region 
more  rich  in  themes  for  the  writer  of  historic  novels, 
heroic  melodramas,  and  roughshod  epics,  than  the 
ancient  province  of  the  New  Netherlands,  and  its  quon- 
dam capital,  at  the  Manhattoes.  "We  live,"  he  used 
to  say,  "in  the  midst  of  history,  mystery,  and  romance; 
he  who  would  find  these  elements,  however,  must  not 
seek  them  among  the  modern  improvements  and 
monied  people  of  the  monied  metropolis;  he  must  dig 
for  them,  as  for  Kidd  the  pirate's  treasures,  in  out  of 
the  way  places,  and  among  the  ruins  of  the  past." 
Never  did  sage  speak  more  truly.  Poetry  and  romance 
received  a  fatal  blow  at  the  overthrow  of  the  ancient 
Dutch  dynasty,  and  have  ever  since  been  gradually 
withering  under  the  growing  domination  of  the  Yan- 
kees. They  abandoned  our  hearths  when  the  old  Dutch 
tiles  were  superseded  by  marble  chimney  pieces;  when 
brass  andirons  made  way  for  polished  grates,  and  the 
crackling  and  blazing  fire  of  nut  wood  gave  place  to 


2"  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

the  smoke  and  stench  of  Liverpool  coal;  and  on  the 
I  downfall  of  the  last  crow-step  gables,  their  requiem 
was  tolled  from  the  tower  of  the  Dutch  church  in 
Nassau  street,  by  the  old  bell  that  came  from  Holland. 
/  But  poetry  and  romance  still  lurk  unseen  among  us, 
or  seen  only  by  the  enlightened  few  who  are  able  to 
contemplate  the  commonplace  scenes  and  objects  of 
the  metropolis,  through  the  medium  of  tradition,  and 
clothed  with  the  associations  of  foregone  ages. 

He  who  would  seek  these  elements  in  the  country, 
must  avoid  all  turnpikes,  railroads,  steamboats,  and 
other  abominable  inventions,  by  which  the  usurping 
Yankees  are  strengthening  themselves  in  the  land,  and 
subduing  everything  to  utility  and  commonplace. 
He  must  avoid  all  towns  and  cities  of  white  clapboard 
palaces,  and  Grecian  temples,  studded  with  "acade- 
mies," "seminaries,"  and  "institutes,"  which  glisten 
along  our  bays  and  rivers;  these  are  the  strongholds  of 
Yankee  usurpation;  but  should  he  haply  light  upon 
some  rough,  rambling  road,  winding  between  stone 
fences,  grey  with  moss,  and  overgrown  with  elder,  poke 
berry,  mullein,  and  sweet  brier,  and  here  and  there  a 
low,  red-roofed,  whitewashed  farmhouse,  cowering 
among  apple  and  cherry  trees;  an  old  stone  church, 
with  elms,  willows,  and  buttonwood,  as  old  looking 
as  itself,  and  tombstones  almost  buried  in  their  own 
graves,  and  peradvcnture  a  small  log-built  school- 
house,  at  a  crossroad,  where  the  Englisii  language  is 
still  taught,  with  a  thickness  of  the  tongue  instead  of 
a  twang  of  the  nose,  he  may  thank  his  stars  that  he 


I 


f 

Looking  across  to  New  York  from  Comynunipazv 


Communlpaw  3 

has  found  one  of  the  lingering  haunts  of  poetry  and 
romance. 

Among  these  favored  places,  the  renowned  village 
of  Communipaw  was  ever  held  by  the  historian  of 
New  Amsterdam  in  especial  veneration.  Here  the 
intrepid  crew  of  the  Goede  Vrouzv  first  cast  the  seeds 
of  empire.  Hence  proceeded  the  expedition  under 
Oloffe  the  Dreamer  to  found  the  city  of  New  Amster- 
dam, vulgarly  called  New  York,  which,  inheriting  the 
genius  of  its  founder,  has  ever  been  a  city  of  dreams 
and  speculations.  Communipaw,  therefore,  may  truly 
be  called  the  parent  of  New  York,  though,  on  comparing 
the  lowly  village  with  the  great  flaunting  city  which 
it  has  engendered,  one  is  forcibly  reminded  of  a  squat 
little  hen  that  has  unwittingly  hatched  out  a  long- 
legged  turkey. 

It  is  a  mirror  also  of  New  Amsterdam,  as  it  was 
before  the  conquest.  Everything  bears  the  stamp  of 
the  days  of  Oloffe  the  Dreamer,  Walter  the  Doubter, 
and  the  other  worthies  of  the  golden  age;  the  same 
gable-fronted  houses,  surmounted  with  weathercocks, 
the  same  knee-buckles  and  shoe-buckles,  and  close 
quilled  caps,  and  linsey-woolsey  petticoats,  and  multi- 
farious breeches.  In  a  word,  Communipaw  is  a  little 
Dutch  Herculaneum  or  Pompeii,  where  the  reliques  of 
the  classic  days  of  the  New  Netherlands  are  preserved 
in  their  pristine  state,  with  the  exception  that  they 
have  never  been  buried. 

The  secret  of  all  this  wonderful  conservation  is 
simple.     At  the  time  that  New  Amsterdam  was  sub- 


4  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

jugated  by  the  Yankees  and  their  British  allies,  as 
Spain  was,  in  ancient  days,  by  the  Saracens,  a  great 
dispersion  took  place  among  the  inhabitants.  One 
resolute  band  determined  never  to  bend  their  necks 
to  the  yoke  of  the  invaders,  and,  led  by  Garret  Van 
Home,  a  gigantic  Dutchman,  the  Pelaye  of  the  New- 
Netherlands,  crossed  the  bay,  and  buried  themselves 
among  the  marshes  of  Communipaw,  as  did  the  Span- 
iards of  yore  among  the  Asturian  mountains.  Here 
they  cut  off  all  communication  with  the  captured  city, 
forbade  the  English  language  to  be  spoken  in  their 
community,  kept  themselves  free  from  foreign  marriage 
and  intermixture,  and  have  thus  remained  the  pure 
Dutch  seed  of  the  Manhattoes,  with  which  the  city 
may  be  repeopled,  whenever  it  is  effectually  delivered 
from  the  Yankees. 

The  citadel  erected  by  Garret  Van  Home  exists  to 
this  day  in  possession  of  his  descendants,  and  is  known 
by  the  lordly  appellation  of  the  House  of  the  Four 
Chimneys,  from  having  a  chimney  perched  like  a 
turret  at  every  comer.  Here  are  to  be  seen  articles 
of  furniture  which  came  over  with  the  first  settlers 
from  Holland;  ancient  chests  of  drawers,  and  massive 
clothes  presses,  quaintly  carved,  and  waxed  and  pol- 
ished until  they  shine  like  mirrors.  Here  are  old  black 
letter  volumes  with  brass  clasps,  printed  of  yore  in 
Leyden,  and  handed  down  from  generation  to  genera- 
tion, but  never  read.  Also  old  parchment  deeds  in 
Dutch  and  English,  bearing  the  seals  of  the  early 
governors  of  the  province. 


Communipaw  5 

In  this  house  the  primitive  Dutch  Holy  Days  of 
Paas  and  Pinxter,  are  faithfully  kept  up,  and  New 
Year  celebrated  with  cookies  and  cherry  bounce;  nor 
is  the  festival  of  the  good  St.  Nicholas  forgotten;  when 
all  the  children  are  sure  to  hang  up  their  stockings, 
and  to  have  them  filled  according  to  their  deserts; 
though  it  is  said  the  good  Saint  is  occasionally  per- 
plexed in  his  nocturnal  visits,  which  chimney  to  de- 
scend. A  tradition  exists  concerning  this  mansion, 
which,  however  dubious  it  may  seem,  is  treasured  up 
with  good  faith  by  the  inhabitants.  It  is  said  that  at 
the  founding  of  it  St.  Nicholas  took  it  under  his  pro- 
tection, and  the  Dutch  Dominie  of  the  place,  who 
was  a  kind  of  soothsayer,  predicted  that  as  long  as 
these  four  chimneys  stood  Communipaw  would  flourish. 
Now  It  came  to  pass  that  some  years  since,  during  the 
great  mania  for  land  speculation,  a  Yankee  speculator 
found  his  way  into  Communipaw;  bewildered  the  old 
burghers  with  a  project  to  erect  their  village  into  a 
great  seaport;  made  a  lithographic  map,  in  which 
their  oyster  beds  were  transformed  into  docks  and 
quays,  their  cabbage  gardens  laid  out  In  town  lots  and 
squares,  and  the  House  of  the  Four  Chimneys  meta- 
morphosed Into  a  great  bank,  with  granite  pillars, 
which  was  to  enrich  the  whole  neighborhood  with 
paper  money. 

Fortunately  at  this  juncture  there  arose  a  high  wind, 
which  shook  the  venerable  pile  to  Its  foundation, 
toppled  down  one  of  the  chimneys,  and  blew  off  a 
weathercock,  the  lord  knows  whither.    The  community 


6  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

took  the  alarm,  they  drove  the  land  speculator  from 
their  shores,  and  since  that  day  not  a  Yankee  has  dared 
to  show  his  face  in  Communipaw. 

The  following  legend  concerning  this  venerable 
place  was  found  among  the  papers  of  the  authentic 
Diedrich. 


GUESTS  FROM  GIBBET  ISLAND 


TX  WHOEVER  has  visited  the  ancient  and  renowned 
^  '  village  of  Communlpaw,  may  have  noticed  an  old 
stone  building,  of  most  ruinous  and  sinister  appearance. 
The  doors  and  window  shutters  are  ready  to  drop  from 
their  hinges;  old  clothes  are  stuffed  In  the  broken 
panes  of  glass,  while  legions  of  half-starved  dogs  prowl 
about  the  premises,  and  rush  out  and  bark  at  every 
passer  by;  for  your  beggarly  house  In  a  village  is  most 
apt  to  swarm  with  profligate  and  ill-conditioned  dogs. 
What  adds  to  the  sinister  appearance  of  this  mansion, 
is  a  tall  frame  in  front,  not  a  little  resembling  a  gal- 
lows, and  which  looks  as  if  waiting  to  accommodate 
some  of  the  Inhabitants  with  a  well-merited  airing. 
It  is  not  a  gallows,  however,  but  an  ancient  sign-post; 
for  this  dwelling.  In  the  golden  days  of  Communlpaw, 
was  one  of  the  most  orderly  and  peaceful  of  village 
taverns,  where  all  the  public  affairs  of  Communlpaw 
were  talked  and  smoked  over.  In  fact,  It  was  in  this 
very  building  that  Oloffe  the  Dreamer,  and  his  com- 
panions, concerted  that  great  voyage  of  discovery  and 
colonization,  in  which  they  explored  Buttermilk  Chan- 
nel, were  nearly  shipwrecked  in  the  strait  of  Hell 
Gate,  and  finally  landed  on  the  Island  of  Manhattan, 
and  founded  the  great  city  of  New  Amsterdam. 


8  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

Even  after  the  province  had  been  cruelly  wrested 
from  the  sway  of  their  High  Mightinesses,  by  the 
combined  forces  of  the  British  and  the  Yankees,  this 
tavern  continued  its  ancient  loyalty.  It  is  true,  the 
head  of  the  Prince  of  Orange  disappeared  from  the  sign; 
a  strange  bird  being  painted  over  it,  with  the  explanatory 
legend  of  "Die  Wilde  Gans,"  or  The  Wild  Goose; 
but  this  all  the  world  knew  to  be  a  sly  riddle  of  the 
landlord,  the  worthy  Teunis  Van'Gieson,  a  knowing 
man  in  a  small  way,  who  laid  his  finger  beside  his  nose 
and  winked,  when  any  one  studied  the  signification 
of  his  sign,  and  observed  that  his  goose  was  hatching, 
but  would  join  the  flock  whenever  they  flew  over  the 
water;  an  enigma  which  was  the  perpetual  recreation 
and  delight  of  the  loyal  but  fat-headed  burghers  of 
Communipaw. 

Under  the  sway  of  this  patriotic,  though  discreet  and 
quiet  publican,  the  tavern  continued  to  flourish  in 
primeval  tranquillity,  and  was  the  resort  of  all  true- 
hearted  Nederlanders,  from  all  parts  of  Pavonia;  who 
met  here  quietly  and  secretly,  to  smoke  and  drink  the 
downfall  of  Briton  and  Yankee,  and  success  to  Admiral 
Von  Tromp. 

The  only  drawback  on  the  comfort  of  the  establish- 
ment, was  a  nephew  of  mine  host,  a  sister's  son,  li  an 
Yost  Vanderscamp  by  name,  and  a  real  scamp  by 
nature.  It  is  an  old  Spanish  proverb,  worthy  of  all 
acceptation,  that  "where  God  denies  sons  the  devil 
sends  nephews,"  and  such  was  the  case  in  the  present 
instance.  This  unlucky  whipster  showed  an  early 
propensity  to  mischief,  which   he  gratified  in  a  small 


Guests  from  Gibbet  Island  9 

way,  by  playing  tricks  upon  the  frequenters  of  the 
Wild  Goose;  putting  gunpowder  in  their  pipes  or  squibs 
in  their  pockets,  and  astonishing  them  with  an  explo- 
sion, while  they  sat  nodding  round  the  fireplace  in 
the  barroom ;  and  if  perchance  a  worthy  burgher 
from  some  distant  part  of  Pavonia  lingered  until  dark 
over  his  potation,  it  was  odds  but  that  young  Vander- 
scamp  would  slip  a  brier  under  his  horse's  tail,  as  he 
mounted,  and  send  him  clattering  along  the  road,  in 
neck-or-nothing  style,  to  his  infinite  astonishment  and 
discomfiture. 

It  may  be  wondered  at,  that  mine  host  of  the  Wild 
Goose  did  not  turn  such  a  graceless  varlet  out  of  doors; 
butTeunis  Van  Gieson  was  an  easy-tempered  man,  and, 
having  no  child  of  his  own,  looked  upon  his  nephew 
with  almost  parental  indulgence.  His  patience  and 
good  nature  were  doomed  to  be  tried  by  another  in- 
mate of  his  mansion.  This  was  a  cross-grained  cur- 
mudgeon of  a  negro,  named  Pluto,  who  was  a  kind  of 
enigma  in  Communipaw.  Where  he  came  from, 
nobody  knew.  He  was  found  one  morning  after  a 
storm,  cast  like  a  sea-monster  on  the  strand,  in  front 
of  the  Wild  Goose,  and  lay  there,  more  dead  than  alive. 
The  neighbors  gathered  round,  and  speculated  on 
this  production  of  the  deep;  whether  it  were  fish  or 
flesh,  or  a  compound  of  both,  commonly  yclept  a  mer- 
man. The  kind-hearted  Teunis  Van  Gieson,  seeing 
that  he  wore  the  human  form,  took  him  into  his  house, 
and  warmed  him  into  life.  By  degrees,  he  showed 
signs  of  intelligence,  and  even  uttered  sounds  very 
much  like  language,  but  which  no  one  in  Communipaw 


lo  Stones  of  the  Hudson 

could  understand.  Some  thought  him  a  negro  just 
from  Guinea,  who  had  either  fallen  overboard,  or  es- 
caped from  a  slave-ship.  Nothing,  however,  could 
ever  draw  from  him  any  account  of  his  origin.  When 
questioned  on  the  subject,  he  merely  pointed  to  Gibbet 
Island,  a  small  rocky  islet,  which  lies  in  the  open  bay 
just  opposite  to  Communipaw,  as  if  that  were  his 
native  place,  though  everybody  knew  it  had  never  been 
inhabited. 

In  the  process  of  time,  he  acquired  something  of  the 
Dutch  language,  that  is  to  say,  he  learnt  all  its  vocabu- 
lary of  oaths  and  maledictions,  with  just  words  suffi- 
cient to  string  them  together.  "Bonder  en  blicksem!" 
(thunder  and  lightning)  was  the  gentlest  of  his  ejacu- 
lations. For  years  he  kept  about  the  Wild  Goose,  more 
like  one  of  those  familiar  spirits,  or  household  goblins, 
that  we  read  of,  than  like  a  human  being.  He  acknowl- 
edged allegiance  to  no  one,  but  performed  various 
domestic  offices,  when  it  suited  his  humor;  waiting 
occasionally  on  the  guests;  grooming  the  horses, 
cutting  wood,  drawing  water;  and  all  tliis  without 
being  ordered.  Lay  any  command  on  him,  and  the 
stubborn  sea-urchin  was  sure  to  rebel.  He  was  never 
so  much  at  home,  however,  as  when  on  the  water, 
plying  about  in  skiff  or  canoe,  entirely  alone,  fishing, 
crabbing,  or  grabbing  for  oysters,  and  would  bring 
home  quantities  for  the  larder  of  the  Wild  Goose, 
which  he  would  throw  down  at  the  kitchen  door  with 
a  growl.  No  wind  nor  weather  deterred  him  from 
launching  forth  on  his  favorite  element:  indeed,  the 
wilder  the  weather,  the  more  he  seemed  to  enjoy  it. 


Guests  from  Gibbet  Island  1 1 

If  a  storm  was  brewing,  he  was  sure  to  put  off  from 
shore;  and  would  be  seen  far  out  in  the  bay,  his  light 
skiff  dancing  like  a  feather  on  the  waves,  when  sea  and 
sky  were  all  in  a  turmoil,  and  the  stoutest  ships  were 
fain  to  lower  their  sails.  Sometimes,  on  such  occasions, 
he  would  be  absent  for  days  together.  How  he  weath- 
ered the  tempests,  and  how  and  where  he  subsisted,  no 
one  could  divine,  nor  did  any  one  venture  to  ask,  for 
all  had  an  almost  superstitious  awe  of  him.  Some  of 
the  Communipaw  oystermen  declared  that  they  had 
more  than  once  seen  him  suddenly  disappear,  canoe 
and  all,  as  if  they  plunged  beneath  the  waves,  and 
after  a  while  come  up  again,  in  quite  a  different  part 
of  the  bay;  whence  they  concluded  that  he  could 
live  under  water  like  that  notable  species  of  wild  duck, 
commonly  called  the  Hell-diver.  All  began  to  consider 
him  in  the  light  of  a  foul-weather  bird,  like  the  Mother 
Carey's  chicken,  or  stormy  petrel;  and  whenever 
they  saw  him  putting  far  out  in  his  skiff,  in  cloudy 
weather,  made  up  their  minds  for  a  storm. 

The  only  being  for  whom  he  seemed  to  have  any 
liking,  was  Yan  Yost  Vanderscamp,  and  him  he  liked 
for  his  very  wickedness.  He  in  a  manner  took  the  boy 
under  his  tutelage,  prompted  him  to  all  kinds  of  mis- 
chief, aided  him  in  every  wild  harum-scarum  freak, 
until  the  lad  became  the  complete  scape-grace  of  the 
village;  a  pest  to  his  uncle,  and  to  every  one  else. 
Nor  were  his  pranks  confined  to  the  land;  he  soon 
learned  to  accompany  old  Pluto  on  the  water.  To- 
gether these  worthies  would  cruise  about  the  broad  bay 
and    all    the    neighboring    straits    and    rivers;     poking 


12  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

around  in  skiffs  and  canoes;  robbing  the  set  nets  of 
the  fishermen;  landing  on  remote  coasts,  and  laying 
waste  orchards  and  watermelon  patches;  in  short, 
carrying  on  a  complete  system  of  piracy,  on  a  small 
scale.  Piloted  by  Pluto,  the  youthful  Vanderscamp 
soon  became  acquainted  with  all  the  bays,  rivers, 
creeks,  and  inlets  of  the  watery  world  around  him; 
could  navigate  from  the  Hook  to  Spiting  Devil  in  the 
darkest  night,  and  learned  to  set  even  the  terrors  of 
Hell  Gate  at  defiance. 

At  length,  negro  and  boy  suddenly  disappeared, 
and  days  and  weeks  elapsed,  but  without  tidings  of 
them.  Some  said  they  must  have  run  away  and  gone 
to  sea;  others  jocosely  hinted,  that  old  Pluto,  being 
no  other  than  a  namesake  in  disguise,  had  spirited 
away  the  boy  to  the  nether  regions.  All,  however, 
agreed  in  one  thing,  that  the  village  was  well  rid  of 
them. 

In  the  process  of  time,  the  good  Teunis  Van  Gieson 
slept  with  his  fathers,  and  the  tavern  remained  shut 
up,  waiting  for  a  claimant,  for  the  next  heir  was  Yan 
Yost  Vanderscamp,  and  he  had  not  been  heard  of  for 
years.  At  length,  one  day,  a  boat  was  seen  pulling 
for  shore,  from  a  long,  black,  rakish-looking  schooner, 
which  lay  at  anchor  in  the  bay.  The  boat's  crew 
seemed  worthy  of  the  craft  from  which  they  debarked. 
Never  had  such  a  set  of  noisy,  roistering,  swaggering 
varlets  landed  in  peaceful  Communipaw.  They  were 
outlandish  in  garb  and  demeanor,  and  were  headed 
by  a  rough,  burly,  bully  ruffian,  with  fiery  whiskers, 
a  copper  nose,  a  scar  across  his  face,  and  a  great  Flaund- 


Guests  from  Gibbet  Island  13 

erish  beaver  slouched  on  one  side  of  his  head,  in  whom, 
to  their  dismay,  the  quiet  inhabitants  were  made  to 
recognize  their  early  pest,  Yan  Yost  Vanderscamp. 
The  rear  of  this  hopeful  gang  was  brought  up  by  old 
Pluto,  who  had  lost  an  eye,  grown  grizzly-headed,  and 
looked  more  like  the  devil  than  ever.  Vanderscamp 
renewed  his  acquaintance  with  the  old  burghers,  much 
against  their  will,  and  in  a  manner  not  at  all  to  their 
taste.  He  slapped  them  familiarly  on  the  back,  gave 
them  an  iron  grip  of  the  hand,  and  was  hail  fellow  well 
met.  According  to  his  own  account,  he  had  been  all 
the  world  over;  had  made  money  by  the  bags  full; 
had  ships  in  every  sea,  and  now  meant  to  turn  the 
Wild  Goose  Into  a  countryseat,  where  he  and  his 
comrades,  all  rich  merchants  from  foreign  parts, 
might  enjoy  themselves  in  the  interval  of  their 
voyages. 

Sure  enough,  in  a  little  while  there  was  a  complete 
metamorphosis  of  the  Wild  Goose.  From  being  a 
quiet,  peaceful  Dutch  public  house,  it  became  a  most 
riotous,  uproarious  private  dwelling;  a  complete  ren- 
dezvous for  boisterous  men  of  the  seas,  who  came  here 
to  have  what  they  call  a  "blow-out"  on  dry  land, 
and  might  be  seen  at  all  hours  lounging  about  the  door, 
or  lolling  out  of  the  windows;  swearing  among  them- 
selves, and  cracking  rough  jokes  on  every  passer-by. 
The  house  was  fitted  up,  too,  in  so  strange  a  manner: 
hammocks  slung  to  the  walls,  instead  of  bedsteads; 
odd  kinds  of  furniture,  of  foreign  fashion;  bamboo 
couches,  Spanish  chairs;  pistols,  cutlasses,  and  blun- 
derbusses   suspended    on    every  peg;    silver  crucifixes 


14  Stones  of  the  Hudson 

on  the  mantelpieces,  silver  candlesticks  and  porringers 
on  the  tables,  contrasting  oddly  with  the  pewter  and 
Delft  ware  of  the  original  establishment.  And  then  the 
strange  amusements  of  these  sea-monsters!  Pitching 
Spanish  dollars,  instead  of  quoits;  firing  blunderbusses 
out  of  the  window;  shooting  at  a  mark,  or  at  any 
unhappy  dog,  or  cat,  or  pig,  or  barn-door  fowl,  that 
might  happen  to  come  within  reach. 

The  only  being  who  seemed  to  relish  their  rough 
waggery,  was  old  Pluto;  and  yet  he  led  but  a  dog's 
life  of  it;  for  they  practised  all  kinds  of  manual  jokes 
upon  him;  kicked  him  about  like  a  football;  shook 
him  by  his  grizzly  mop  of  wool,  and  never  spoke 
to  him  without  coupling  a  curse  by  way  of  adjective 
to  his  name,  and  consigning  him  to  the  infernal 
regions.  The  old  fellow,  however,  seemed  to  like 
them  the  better,  the  more  they  cursed  him,  though 
his  utmost  expression  of  pleasure  never  amounted  to 
more  than  the  growl  of  a  petted  bear,  when  his  ears 
are  rubbed. 

Old  Pluto  was  the  ministering  spirit  at  the  orgies  of 
the  Wild  Goose;  and  such  orgies  as  took  place  there! 
Such  drinking,  singing,  whooping,  swearing;  with  an 
occasional  interlude  of  quarreling  and  fighting.  The 
noisier  grew  the  revel,  the  more  old  Pluto  plied  the 
potations,  until  the  guests  would  become  frantic  in 
their  merriment,  smashing  everything  to  pieces,  and 
throwing  the  house  out  of  the  windows.  Sometimes, 
after  a  drinking  bout,  they  sallied  forth  and  scoured 
the  village,  to  the  dismay  of  the  worthy  burghers,  who 
gathered  their  women  within  doors,  and  would  have 


Guests  from  Gibbet  Island  15 

shut  up  the  house.  Vanderscamp,  however,  was  not 
to  be  rebuffed.  He  Insisted  on  renewing  acquaintance 
with  his  old  neighbors,  and  on  Introducing  his  friends, 
the  merchants,  to  their  families;  swore  he  was  on  the 
lookout  for  a  wife,  and  meant,  before  he  stopped,  to 
find  husbands  for  all  their  daughters.  So,  wlll-ye, 
nlll-ye,  sociable  he  was;  swaggered  about  their  best 
parlors,  with  his  hat  on  one  side  of  his  head;  sat  on 
the  good  wife's  nicely  waxed  mahogany  table,  kicking 
his  heels  against  the  carved  and  polished  legs;  kissed 
and  tousled  the  young  vrouws;  and,  if  they  frowned  and 
pouted,  gave  them  a  gold  rosary,  or  a  sparkling  cross, 
to  put  them  in  good  humor  again. 

Sometimes  nothing  would  satisfy  him,  but  he  must 
have  some  of  his  old  neighbors  to  dinner  at  the  Wild 
Goose.  There  was  no  refusing  him,  for  he  had  got  the 
complete  upper  hand  of  the  community,  and  the 
peaceful  burghers  all  stood  in  awe  of  him.  But  what 
a  time  would  the  quiet,  worthy  men  have,  among  those 
rake-hells,  who  would  delight  to  astound  them  with 
the  most  extravagant  gunpowder  tales,  embroidered 
with  all  kinds  of  foreign  oaths;  clink  the  can  with  them; 
pledge  them  In  deep  potations;  bawl  drinking  songs 
in  their  ears;  and  occasionally  fire  pistols  over  their 
heads,  or  under  the  table,  and  then  laugh  in  their 
faces,  and  ask  them  how  they  liked  the  smell  of  gun- 
powder. 

Thus  was  the  little  village  of  Communlpaw  for  a 
time  like  the  unfortunate  wight  possessed  with  devils; 
until  Vanderscamp  and  his  brother  merchants  would 
sail  on  another  trading  voyage,  when  the  Wild  Goose 


l6  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

would  be  shut  up,  and  everything  relapse  into  quiet, 
only  to  be  disturbed  by  his  next  visitation. 

The  mystery  of  all  these  proceedings  gradually 
dawned  upon  the  tardy  intellects  of  Communipaw. 
These  were  the  times  of  the  notorious  Captain  Kidd, 
when  the  American  harbors  were  the  resorts  of  piratical 
adventurers  of  all  kinds,  who,  under  pretext  of  mer- 
cantile voyages,  scoured  the  West  Indies,  made  plun- 
dering descents  upon  the  Spanish  Main,  visited  even 
the  remote  Indian  Seas,  and  then  came  to  dispose  of 
their  booty,  have  their  revels,  and  fit  out  new  expedi- 
tions, in  the  English  colonies, 

Vanderscamp  had  served  in  this  hopeful  school,  and 
having  risen  to  Importance  among  the  buccaneers,  had 
pitched  upon  his  native  village  and  early  home,  as  a  quiet, 
out-of-the-way,  unsuspected  place,  where  he  and  his 
comrades,  while  anchored  at  New  York,  might  have  their 
feasts,  and  concert  their  plans,  without  molestation. 

At  length  the  attention  of  the  British  government 
was  called  to  these  piratical  enterprises,  that  were 
becoming  so  frequent  and  outrageous.  Vigorous 
measures  were  taken  to  check  and  punish  them.  Sev- 
eral of  the  most  noted  freebooters  were  caught  and 
executed,  and  three  of  Vanderscamp's  chosen  com- 
rades, the  most  riotous  swashbucklers  of  the  Wild 
Goose,  were  hanged  in  chains  on  Gibbet  Island,  in 
full  sight  of  their  favorite  resort.  As  to  Vanderscamp 
himself,  he  and  his  man  Pluto  again  disappeared,  and 
it  was  hoped  by  the  people  of  Communipaw  that  he 
had  fallen  in  some  foreign  brawl,  or  been  swung  on 
some  foreign  gallows. 


Guests  from  Gibbet  Island  17 

For  a  time,  therefore,  the  tranquillity  of  the  village 
was  restored;  the  worthy  Dutchmen  once  more  smoked 
their  pipes  in  peace,  eyeing,  with  peculiar  complacency, 
their  old  pests  and  terrors,  the  pirates,  dangling  and 
drying  in  the  sun,  on  Gibbet  Island. 

This  perfect  calm  was  doomed  at  length  to  be 
ruffled.  The  fiery  persecution  of  the  pirates  gradually 
subsided.  Justice  was  satisfied  with  the  examples 
that  had  been  made,  and  there  was  no  more  talk  of 
Kidd,  and  the  other  heroes  of  like  kidney.  On  a  calm 
summer  evening,  a  boat,  somewhat  heavily  laden, 
was  seen  pulling  into  Communipaw.  What  was  the 
surprise  and  disquiet  of  the  inhabitants,  to  see  Yan 
Yost  Vanderscamp  seated  at  the  helm,  and  his  man 
Pluto  tugging  at  the  oar.  Vanderscamp,  however,  was 
apparently  an  altered  man.  He  brought  home  with 
him  a  wife,  who  seemed  to  be  a  shrew,  and  to  have 
the  upper  hand  of  him.  He  no  longer  was  the  swagger- 
ing, bully  ruffian,  but  affected  the  regular  merchant, 
and  talked  of  retiring  from  business,  and  settling 
down  quietly,  to  pass  the  rest  of  his  days  in  his  native 
place. 

The  Wild  Goose  mansion  was  again  opened,  but  with 
diminished  splendor,  and  no  riot.  It  is  true,  Vander- 
scamp had  frequent  nautical  visitors,  and  the  sound  of 
revelry  was  occasionally  overheard  in  his  house;  but 
everything  seemed  to  be  done  under  the  rose;  and  old 
Pluto  was  the  only  servant  that  officiated  at  these 
orgies.  The  visitors,  indeed,  were  by  no  means  of  the 
turbulent  stamp  of  their  predecessors;  but  quiet, 
mysterious  traders,  full  of  nods,  and  winks,  and  hiero- 


1 8  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

glyphic  signs,  with  whom,  to  use  their  cant  phrase, 
"everything  was  smug."  Their  ships  came  to  anchor 
at  night,  in  the  lower  bay;  and,  on  a  private  signal, 
Vanderscamp  would  launch  his  boat,  and,  accompanied 
solely  by  his  man  Pluto,  would  make  them  mysterious 
visits.  Sometimes  boats  pulled  in  at  night,  in  front 
of  the  Wild  Goose,  and  various  articles  of  merchandise 
were  landed  in  the  dark,  and  spirited  away,  nobody 
knew  whither.  One  of  the  more  curious  of  the  inhabit- 
ants kept  watch,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  features 
of  some  of  these  night  visitors,  by  the  casual  glance 
of  a  lantern,  and  declared  that  he  recognised  more 
than  one  of  the  freebooting  frequenters  of  the  Wild 
Goose,  in  former  times;  from  whence  he  concluded 
that  Vanderscamp  was  at  his  old  game,  and  that 
this  mysterious  merchandise  was  nothing  more  nor 
less  than  piratical  plunder.  The  more  charitable  opin- 
ion, however,  was,  that  Vanderscamp  and  his  comrades, 
having  been  driven  from  their  old  line  of  business,  by 
the  "oppressions  of  government,"  had  resorted  to  smug- 
gling to  make  both  ends  meet. 

Be  that  as  It  may:  I  come  now  to  the  extraordinary 
fact,  which  is  the  butt-end  of  this  story.  It  happened 
late  one  night,  than  Yan  Yost  Vanderscamp  was  re- 
turning across  the  broad  bay,  in  his  light  skiff,  rowed 
by  his  man  Pluto.  He  had  been  carousing  on  board 
of  a  vessel,  newly  arrived,  and  was  somewhat  obfus- 
cated in  intellect,  by  the  liquid  he  had  imbibed.  It 
was  a  still,  sultry  night;  a  heavy  mass  of  lurid  clouds 
was  rising  in  the  west,  with  the  low  muttering  of  dis- 
tant thunder.     Vanderscamp  called  on  Pluto  to  pull 


spiting  Devil,  the  creek  at  the  north  end  of  Manhattan  Island 


Guests  from  Gibbet  Island  19 

lustily,  that  they  might  get  home  before  the  gathering 
storm.  The  old  negro  made  no  reply,  but  shaped  his 
course  so  as  to  skirt  the  rocky  shores  of  Gibbet 
Island.  A  faint  creaking  overhead  caused  Vander- 
scamp  to  cast  up  his  eyes,  when,  to  his  horror,  he 
beheld  the  bodies  of  his  three  pot  companions  and 
brothers  in  iniquity,  dangling  in  the  moonlight,  their 
rags  fluttering,  and  their  chains  creaking,  as  they 
were  slowly  swung  backward  and  forward  by  the 
rising  breeze. 

"What  do  you  mean,  you  blockhead,"  cried  Van- 
derscamp,  "by  pulling  so  close  to  the  island.'"' 

"I  thought  you'd  be  glad  to  see  your  old  friends 
once  more,"  growled  the  negro;  "you  were  never 
afraid  of  a  living  man,  what  do  you  fear  from  the 
dead.?" 

"Who's  afraid.'"'  hiccupped  Vanderscamp,  partly 
heated  by  liquor,  partly  nettled  by  the  jeer  of  the 
negro;  "who's  afraid.''  Hang  me,  but  I  would  be  glad 
to  see  them  once  more,  alive  or  dead,  at  the  Wild 
Goose.  Come,  my  lads  in  the  wind,"  continued  he, 
taking  a  draught,  and  flourishing  the  bottle  above  his 
head,  "here's  fair  weather  to  you  in  the  other  world; 
and  if  you  should  be  walking  the  rounds  tonight,  odds 
fish,  but  I'll  be  happy  if  you  will  drop  in  to  supper." 

A  dismal  creaking  was  the  only  reply.  The  wind  blew 
loud  and  shrill,  and  as  it  whistled  round  the  gallows, 
and  among  the  bones,  sounded  as  if  there  were  laugh- 
ing and  gibbering  in  the  air.  Old  Pluto  chuckled  to 
himself,  and  now  pulled  for  home.  The  storm  burst 
over  the  voyagers,  while  they  were  yet  far  from  shore. 


20  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

The  rain  fell  in  torrents,  the  thunder  crashed  and 
pealed,  and  the  lightning  kept  up  an  incessant  blaze. 
It  was  stark  midnight  before  they  landed  at  Commu- 
nipaw. 

Dripping  and  shivering,  Vanderscamp  crawled  home- 
ward. He  was  completely  sobered  by  the  storm;  the 
water  soaked  from  without  having  diluted  and  cooled 
the  liquor  within.  Arrived  at  the  Wild  Goose,  he 
knocked  timidly  and  dubiously  at  the  door,  for  he 
dreaded  the  reception  he  was  to  experience  from  his 
wife.  He  had  reason  to  do  so.  She  met  him  at  the 
threshold,  in  a  precious  ill-humor. 

"Is  this  a  time,"  said  she,  "to  keep  people  out  of 
their  beds,  and  to  bring  home  company,  to  turn  the 
house  upside  down.'"' 

"Company.'"'  said  Vanderscamp  meekly,  "I  have 
brought  no  company  with  me,  wife." 

"No,  indeed!  they  have  got  here  before  you,  but  by 
your  invitation;  and  a  blessed  looking  company  they 
are,    truly." 

Vanderscamp's  knees  smote  together.  "For  the 
love  of  heaven,  where  are  they,  wife.'"' 

" Where .^ — why  in  the  blue  room,  up  stairs,  making 
themselves  as  much  at  home  as  if  the  house  were  their 
own." 

Vanderscamp  made  a  desperate  effort,  scrambled  up 
to  the  room,  and  threw  open  the  door.     Sure  enough, 
there  at  a  table  on  which  burned  a  light  as  blue  as 
brimstone,   sat  the  three  guests  from  Gibbet   Island, i 
with  halters  round  their  necks,  and  bobbing  their  cups  I 
together,  as  if  they  were  hob-or-nobbing,  and  trolling] 


Guests  from  Gibbet  Island  21 

the  old  Dutch  freebooter's  glee,  since  translated  into 
English: 

"For  three  merry  lads  be  we, 
And  three  merry  lads  be  we; 
I  on  the  land,  and  thou  on  the  sand. 
And  Jack  on  the  gallows  tree." 


Vanderscamp  saw  and  heard  no  more.  Starting 
back  with  horror,  he  missed  his  footing  on  the  landing 
place,  and  fell  from  the  top  of  the  stairs  to  the  bottom. 
He  was  taken  up  speechless,  and,  either  from  the  fall 
or  the  fright,  died  and  was  buried  in  the  yard  of  the 
little  Dutch  church  at  Bergen,  on  the  following 
Sunday. 

From  that  day  forward,  the  fate  of  the  Wild  Goose 
was  sealed.  It  was  pronounced  a  haunted  house,  and 
avoided  accordingly.  No  one  inhabited  it  but  Van- 
derscamp's  shrew  of  a  widow,  and  old  Pluto,  and  they 
were  considered  but  little  better  than  its  hobgoblin 
visitors.  Pluto  grew  more  and  more  haggard  and 
morose,  and  looked  more  like  an  imp  of  darkness  than 
a  human  being.  He  spoke  to  no  one,  but  went  about 
muttering  to  himself;  or,  as  some  hinted,  talking  with 
the  devil,  who,  though  unseen,  was  ever  at  his  elbow. 
Now  and  then  he  was  seen  pulling  about  the  bay  alone, 
in  his  skiif,  in  dark  weather,  or  at  the  approach  of  night- 
fall; nobody  could  tell  why,  unless  on  an  errand  to 
invite  more  guests  from  the  gallows.  Indeed  it  was 
affirmed  that  the  Wild  Goose  still  continued  to  be  a 
house  of  entertainment  for  such  guests,  and  that  on 


22  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

stormy  nights  the  blue  chamber  was  occasionally 
illuminated,  and  sounds  of  diabolical  merriment  were 
overheard,  mingling  with  the  howling  of  the  tempest. 
Some  treated  these  as  idle  stories,  until  on  one  such 
night — it  was  about  the  time  of  the  equinox — there 
was  a  horrible  uproar  in  the  Wild  Goose,  that  could  not 
be  mistaken.  It  was  not  so  much  the  sound  of  revelry, 
however,  as  strife,  with  two  or  three  piercing  shrieks, 
that  pervaded  every  part  of  the  village.  Nevertheless, 
no  one  thought  of  hastening  to  the  spot.  On  the  con- 
trary, the  honest  burghers  of  Communipaw  drew  their 
nightcaps  over  their  ears,  and  buried  their  heads  under 
the  bed-clothes,  at  the  thoughts  of  Vanderscamp  and 
his  gallows  companions. 

The  next  morning,  some  of  the  bolder  and  more 
curious  undertook  to  reconnoitre.  All  was  quiet  and 
lifeless  at  the  Wild  Goose,  The  door  yawned  wide 
open,  and  had  evidently  been  open  all  night,  for  the 
storm  had  beaten  into  the  house.  Gathering  more 
courage  from  the  silence  and  apparent  desertion,  they 
gradually  ventured  over  the  threshold.  The  house  had 
indeed  the  air  of  having  been  possessed  by  devils. 
Everything  was  topsy  turvy;  trunks  had  been  broken 
open,  and  chests  of  drawers  and  corner  cupboards 
turned  inside  out,  as  in  a  time  of  general  sack  and 
pillage;  but  the  most  woful  sight  was  the  widow  of 
Yan  Yost  Vanderscamp,  extended  a  corpse  on  the 
floor  of  the  blue  chamber,  with  the  marks  of  a  deadly 
gripe  on  the  windpipe. 

All  now  was  conjecture  and  dismay  at  Communipaw; 
and  tlu'  disappearance  of  old  Pluto,  who  was  nowhere 


Guests  from  Gibbet  Island  23 

to  be  found,  gave  rise  to  all  kinds  of  wild  surmises. 
Some  suggested  that  the  negro  had  betrayed  the  house 
to  some  of  Vanderscamp's  buccaneering  associates, 
and  that  they  had  decamped  together  with  the  booty; 
others  surmised  that  the  negro  was  nothing  more  nor 
less  than  a  devil  incarnate,  who  had  now  accomplished 
his  ends,  and  made  off  with  his  dues. 

Events,  however,  vindicated  the  negro  from  this 
last  imputation.  His  skiff  was  picked  up,  drifting 
about  the  bay,  bottom  upwards,  as  if  wrecked  in  a 
tempest;  and  his  body  was  found,  shortly  afterwards, 
by  some  Communipaw  fishermen,  stranded  among  the 
rocks  of  Gibbet  Island,  near  the  foot  of  the  pirates' 
gallows.  The  fishermen  shook  their  heads,  and  ob- 
served that  old  Pluto  had  ventured  once  too  often  to 
invite  Guests  from  Gibbet  Island. 


VVOLFERT'S  ROOST 

Chronicle  I 

A  BOUT  five-and-twenty  miles  from  the  ancient  and 
renowned  city  of  Manhattan,  formerly  called  New 
Amsterdam,  and  vulgarly  called  New  York,  on  the 
eastern  bank  of  that  expansion  of  the  Hudson  known 
among  Dutch  mariners  of  yore  as  the  Tappan  Zee, 
being  in  fact  the  great  Mediterranean  Sea  of  the  New 
Netherlands,  stands  a  little,  old-fashioned  stone  man- 
sion, all  made  up  of  gable  ends,  and  as  full  of  angles  and 
corners  as  an  old  cocked  hat.  It  is  said,  in  fact,  to  have 
been  modelled  after  the  cocked  hat  of  Peter  the  Head- 
strong, as  the  Escurial  was  modelled  after  the  gridiron 
of  the  blessed  St.  Lawrence.  Though  but  of  small 
dimensions,  yet,  like  many  small  people,  it  is  of  mighty 
spirit,  and  values  itself  greatly  on  its  antiquity,  being 
one  of  the  oldest  edifices,  for  its  size,  in  the  whole 
country.  It  claims  to  be  an  ancient  seat  of  empire — I 
may  rather  say  an  empire  in  itself — and  like  all  em- 
pires, great  and  small,  has  had  its  grand  historical 
epochs.  In  speaking  of  this  doughty  and  valorous 
little  pile,  I  shall  call  it  by  its  usual  appellation  of  "The 
Roost;"  though  that  is  a  name  given  to  it  in  modern 
days,  since  it  became  the  abode  of  the  white  man. 


Wolfert's  Roost  25 

Its  origin,  in  truth,  dates  far  back  in  that  remote 
region  commonly  called  the  fabulous  age,  in  which 
vulgar  fact  becomes  mystified  and  tinted  up  with 
delectable  fiction.  The  eastern  shore  of  the  Tappan 
Sea  was  inhabited  in  those  days  by  an  unsophisticated 
race,  existing  in  all  the  simplicity  of  nature;  that  is  to 
say,  they  lived  by  hunting  and  fishing,  and  recreated 
themselves  occasionally  with  a  little  tomahawking  and 
scalping.  Each  stream  that  flows  down  from  the  hills 
into  the  Hudson  had  its  petty  sachem,  who  ruled  over 
a  hand's-breadth  of  forest  on  either  side,  and  had  his 
seat  of  government  at  its  mouth.  The  chieftain  who 
ruled  at  the  Roost  was  not  merely  a  great  warrior,  but 
a  medicine-man,  or  prophet,  or  conjurer,  for  they  all 
mean  the  same  thing  in  Indian  parlance.  Of  his  fight- 
ing propensities  evidences  still  remain,  in  various  arrow- 
heads of  flint,  and  stone  battle-axes,  occasionally  digged 
up  about  the  Roost;  of  his  wizard  powers  we  have  a 
token  in  a  spring  which  wells  up  at  the  foot  of  the  bank, 
on  the  very  margin  of  the  river,  which,  it  is  said,  was 
gifted  by  him  with  rejuvenating  powers,  something 
like  the  renowned  Fountain  of  Youth  in  the  Floridas, 
so  anxiously  but  vainly  sought  after  by  the  veteran 
Ponce  de  Leon.  This  story,  however,  is  stoutly  con- 
tradicted by  an  old  Dutch  matter-of-fact  tradition, 
which  declares  that  the  spring  in  question  was 
smuggled  over  from  Holland  in  a  churn,  by  Fem- 
metie  Van  Blarcom,  wife  of  Goosen  Garret  Van 
Blarcom,  one  of  the  first  settlers,  and  that  she  took  it 
up  by  night,  unknown  to  her  husband,  from  beside 
their  farmhouse  near  Rotterdam;  being  sure  she  should 


26  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

find  no  water  equal  to  it  in  the  new  country — and  she 
was  right. 

The  wizard  sachem  had  a  great  passion  for  discussing 
territorial  questions,  and  settling  boundary  lines;  in 
other  words,  he  had  the  spirit  of  annexation.  This 
kept  him  in  continual  feud  with  the  neighboring 
sachems,  each  of  whom  stood  up  stoutly  for  his  hand- 
breadth  of  territory;  so  that  there  is  not  a  petty  stream 
nor  rugged  hill  in  the  neighborhood  that  has  not  been 
the  subject  of  long  talks  and  hard  battles.  The  sachem, 
however,  as  has  been  observed,  was  a  medicine-man  as 
well  as  warrior,  and  vindicated  his  claims  by  arts  as 
well  as  arms;  so  that,  by  dint  of  a  little  hard  fighting 
here,  and  hocus-pocus  (or  diplomacy)  there,  he  man- 
aged to  extend  his  boundary  line  from  field  to  field  and 
stream  to  stream,  until  it  brought  him  into  collision 
with  the  powerful  sachem  of  Sing  Sing.*  Alany  were 
the  sharp  conflicts  between  these  rival  chieftains  for 
the  sovereignty  of  a  winding  valley,  a  favorite  hunting- 
ground  watered  by  a  beautiful  stream  called  the 
Pocantico.  Many  were  the  ambuscades,  surprisals, 
and  deadly  onslaughts  that  took  place  among  its  fast- 
nesses, of  which  it  grieves  me  much  that  I  cannot  pur- 
sue the  details,  for  the  gratification  of  those  gentle 
but  bloody-minded  readers,  of  both  sexes,  who  delight 
in  the  romance  of  the  tomahawk  and  scalping-knife. 

*A  corruption  of  the  old  Indian  name,  0-sin-sing.  Some  have 
rendered  it,  0-sin-song,  or  0-sing-sonp,  in  token  of  its  being  a  great 
market  town,  where  anything  may  be  had  for  a  mere  song.  Its 
present  melodious  alteration  to  Sing  Sing  is  said  to  have  been  made 
in  compliment  to  a  Yankee  singing  master,  who  taught  the  inhabit- 
ants the  art  of  singing  through  the  nose. 


Wolfert's  Roost  27 

Suffice  it  to  say,  that  the  wizard  chieftain  was  at  length 
victorious,  though  his  victory  is  attributed,  in  Indian 
tradition,  to  a  great  medicine,  or  charm,  by  which  he 
laid  the  sachem  of  Sing  Sing  and  his  warriors  asleep 
among  the  rocks  and  recesses  of  the  valley,  where  they 
remain  asleep  to  the  present  day,  with  their  bows  and 
war-clubs  beside  them.  This  was  the  origin  of  that 
potent  and  drowsy  spell,  which  still  prevails  over  the 
valley  of  the  Pocantico,  and  which  has  gained  it  the 
well-merited  appellation  of  Sleepy  Hollow.  Often,  in 
secluded  and  quiet  parts  of  that  valley,  where  the 
stream  is  overhung  by  dark  woods  and  rocks,  the 
ploughman,  on  some  calm  and  sunny  day,  as  he  shouts 
to  his  oxen,  is  surprised  at  hearing  faint  shouts  from 
the  hillsides  in  reply;  being,  it  is  said,  the  spellbound 
warriors,  who  half  start  from  their  rocky  couches  and 
grasp  their  weapons,  but  sink  to  sleep  again. 

The  conquest  of  the  Pocantico  was  the  last  triumph 
of  the  wizard  sachem.  Notwithstanding  all  his  medi- 
cines and  charms,  he  fell  in  battle,  in  attempting  to 
extend  his  boundary  line  to  the  east,  so  as  to  take  in 
the  little  wild  valley  of  the  Sprain;  and  his  grave  is 
still  shown,  near  the  banks  of  that  pastoral  stream. 
He  left,  however,  a  great  empire  to  his  successors,  ex- 
tending along  the  Tappan  Sea,  from  Yonkers  quite  to 
Sleepy  Hollow,  and  known  in  old  records  and  maps  by 
the  Indian  name  of  Wicquaes-Keck. 

The  wizard  sachem  was  succeeded  by  a  line  of  chiefs 
of  whom  nothing  remarkable  remains  on  record.  One 
of  them  was  the  very  individual  on  whom  master 
Hendrick  Hudson  and  his  mate  Robert  Juet  made  that 


28  Stones  of  the  Hudson 

sage  experiment  gravely  recorded  by  the  latter,  in  the 
narrative  of  the  discovery. 

"Our  master  and  his  mate  determined  to  try  some 
of  the  cheefe  men  of  the  country,  whether  they  had  any 
treacherie  in  them.  So  they  took  them  down  into  the 
cabin,  and  gave  them  so  much  wine  and  aqua  vitae, 
that  they  were  all  very  merrie;  one  of  them  had  his 
wife  with  him,  which  sate  so  modestly  as  any  of  our 
countrywomen  would  do  in  a  strange  place.  In  the 
end,  one  of  them  was  drunke;  and  that  was  strange  to 
them,  for  they  could  not  tell  how  to  take  it." 

How  far  master  Hendrick  Hudson  and  his  worthy 
mate  carried  their  experiment  with  the  sachem's  wife, 
is  not  recorded;  neither  does  the  curious  Robert  Juet 
make  any  mention  of  the  after  consequences  of  this 
grand  moral  test;  tradition,  however,  affirms  that  the 
sachem,  on  landing,  gave  his  modest  spouse  a  hearty 
rib-roasting,  according  to  the  connubial  discipline  of 
the  aboriginals;  it  farther  affirms  that  he  remained  a 
hard  drinker  to  the  day  of  his  death,  trading  away  all 
his  lands,  acre  by  acre,  for  aqua  vitse;  by  which  means 
the  Roost  and  all  its  domains,  from  Yonkers  to  Sleepy 
Hollow,  came,  in  the  regular  course  of  trade,  and  by 
right  of  purchase,  into  the  possession  of  the  Dutch- 
men. 

The  worthy  government  of  the  New  Netherlands 
was  not  suffered  to  enjoy  this  grand  acquisition  un- 
molested. In  the  year  1654,  the  losel  Yankees  of  Con- 
necticut, those  swapping,  bargaining,  squatting  enemies 
of  the  Manhattoes,  made  a  daring  inroad  into  this 
neighborhood,  and  founded  a  colony  called  Westchester, 


The  rocky  heights  oj  Jersey 


Wolfert's  Roost  29 

or,  as  the  ancient  Dutch  records  term  it,  Vest  Dorp,  in 
the  right  of  one  Thomas  Pell,  who  pretended  to  have 
purchased  the  whole  surrounding  country  of  the  In- 
dians, and  stood  ready  to  argue  their  claims  before  any 
tribunal  of  Christendom. 

This  happened  during  the  chivalrous  reign  of  Peter 
Stuyvesant,  and  roused  the  ire  of  that  gunpowder  old 
hero.  Without  waiting  to  discuss  claims  and  titles,  he 
pounced  at  once  upon  the  nest  of  nefarious  squatters, 
carried  off  twenty-five  of  them  in  chains  to  the  Man- 
hattoes;  nor  did  he  stay  his  hand,  nor  give  rest  to  his 
wooden  leg,  until  he  had  driven  the  rest  of  the  Yankees 
back  into  Connecticut,  or  obliged  them  to  acknowledge 
allegiance  to  their  High  Mightinesses.  In  revenge, 
however,  they  introduced  the  plague  of  witchcraft  into 
the  province.  This  doleful  malady  broke  out  at  Vest 
Dorp,  and  would  have  spread  throughout  the  country 
had  not  the  Dutch  farmers  nailed  horseshoes  to  the 
doors  of  their  houses  and  barns,  sure  protections 
against  witchcraft,  many  of  which  remain  to  the  pres- 
ent day. 

The  seat  of  empire  of  the  wizard  sachem  now  came 
into  the  possession  of  Wolfert  Acker,  one  of  the  privy 
counsellors  of  Peter  Stuyvesant.  He  was  a  worthy, 
but  ill-starred  man,  whose  aim  through  life  had  been 
to  live  in  peace  and  quiet.  For  this  he  had  emigrated 
from  Holland,  driven  abroad  by  family  feuds  and  wran- 
gling neighbors.  He  had  warred  for  quiet  through  the 
fidgety  reign  of  William  the  Testy,  and  the  fighting 
reign  of  Peter  the  Headstrong,  sharing  in  every  brawl 
and  rib-roasting,  in  his  eagerness  to  keep  the  peace  and 


30  Stones  of  the  Hudson 

promote  public  tranquillity.  It  was  his  doom,  in  fact, 
to  meet  a  head-wind  at  every  turn,  and  be  kept 
in  a  constant  fume  and  fret  by  the  perverseness  of 
mankind.  Had  he  served  on  a  modern  jury,  he  would 
have  been  sure  to  have  eleven  unreasonable  men  op- 
posed to  him. 

At  the  time  when  the  province  of  the  New  Nether- 
lands was  wrested  from  the  domination  of  their  High 
Mightinesses  by  the  combined  forces  of  Old  and  New 
England,  Wolfert  retired  in  high  dudgeon  to  this  fast- 
ness in  the  wilderness,  with  the  bitter  determination 
to  bury  himself  from  the  world,  and  live  here  for  the 
rest  of  his  days  in  peace  and  quiet.  In  token  of  that 
fixed  purpose,  he  inscribed  over  his  door  (his  teeth 
clenched  at  the  time)  his  favorite  Dutch  motto,  "Lust 
in  Rust"  (pleasure  in  quiet).  The  mansion  was  thence 
called  Wolfert's  Rust  (Wolfert's  Rest),  but  by  the 
uneducated,  who  did  not  understand  Dutch,  Wol- 
fert's Roost;  probably  from  its  quaint  cockloft  look, 
and  from  its  having  a  weathercock  perched  on  every 
gable. 

Wolfert's  luck  followed  him  into  retirement.  He 
had  shut  himself  up  from  the  world,  but  he  had  brought 
with  him  a  wife,  and  it  soon  passed  into  a  proverb 
throughout  the  neighborhood  that  the  cock  of  the  Roost 
was  the  most  henpecked  bird  in  the  country.  His  house 
too  was  reputed  to  be  harassed  by  Yankee  witchcraft. 
When  the  weather  was  quiet  everywhere  else,  the  wind, 
it  was  said,  would  howl  and  whistle  about  the  gables; 
witches  and  warlocks  would  whirl  about  upon  the 
weathercocks,  and  scream  down  the  chimneys;    nay, 


Wolfert's  Roost  31 

it  was  even  hinted  that  Wolfert's  wife  was  in  league 
with  the  enemy,  and  used  to  ride  on  a  broomstick  to  a 
witches'  sabbath  in  Sleepy  Hollow.  This,  however, 
was  all  mere  scandal,  founded  perhaps  on  her  occa- 
sionally flourishing  a  broomstick  in  the  course  of  a  cur- 
tain lecture,  or  raising  a  storm  within  doors,  as  terma- 
gant wives  are  apt  to  do,  and  against  which  sorcery 
horseshoes  are  of  no  avail. 

Wolfert  Acker  died  and  was  buried,  but  found  no 
quiet  even  in  the  grave;  for  if  popular  gossip  be  true, 
his  ghost  has  occasionally  been  seen  walking  by  moon- 
light among  the  old  gray  moss-grown  trees  of  his  apple 
orchard. 


Chronicle   II 


The  next  period  at  which  we  find  this  venerable  and 
eventful  pile  rising  into  importance,  was  during  the 
dark  and  troublous  time  of  the  Revolutionary  War.  It 
was  the  keep  or  stronghold  of  Jacob  Van  Tassel,  a 
valiant  Dutchman  of  the  old  stock  of  Van  Tassels,  who 
abound  in  Westchester  County.  The  name  as  originally 
written,  was  Van  Texel,  being  derived  from  the  Texel 
in  Holland,  which  gave  birth  to  that  heroic  line. 

The  Roost  stood  in  the  very  heart  of  what  at  that 
time  was  called  the  debatable  ground,  lying  between 
the  British  and  American  lines.  The  British  held  pos- 
session of  the  city  and  island  of  New  York;  while  the 
Americans   drew  up   towards   the  Highlands,   holding 


32  Stones  of  the  Hudson 

their  headquarters  at  Peekskill.  The  intervening 
country  from  Croton  River  to  Spiting  Devil  Creek  was 
the  debatable  ground  in  question,  liable  to  be  harried 
by  friend  and  foe,  like  the  Scottish  borders  of  yore. 

It  is  a  rugged  region,  full  of  fastnesses.  A  line  of 
rocky  hills  extends  through  it  like  a  backbone,  sending 
out  ribs  on  either  side;  but  these  rude  hills  are  for  the 
most  part  richly  wooded,  and  enclose  little  fresh  pas- 
toral valleys  watered  by  the  Neperan,  the  Pocantico,* 
and  other  beautiful  streams,  along  which  the  Indians 
built  their  wigwams  in  the  olden  time. 

In  the  fastnesses  of  these  hills,  and  along  these  val- 
leys, existed,  in  the  time  of  which  I  am  treating,  and 
indeed  exist  to  the  present  day,  a  race  of  hard-headed, 
hard-handed,  stout-hearted  yeomen,  descendants  of 
the  primitive  Nederlanders.  Men  obstinately  attached 
to  the  soil,  and  neither  to  be  fought  nor  bought  out  of 
their  paternal  acres.  Most  of  them  were  strong  Whigs 
throughout  the  war;  some,  however,  were  Tories,  or 
adherents  to  the  old  kingly  rule,  who  considered  the 
revolution  a  mere  rebellion,  soon  to  be  put  down  by 
his  majesty's  forces.  A  number  of  these  took  refuge 
within  the  British  lines,  joined  the  military  bands  of 
refugees,  and  became  pioneers  or  leaders  to  foraging 
parties  sent  out  from  New  York  to  scour  the  country 
and  sweep  off  supplies  for  the  British  army. 

*The  Neperan,  vulgarly  called  the  Sawmill  River,  winds  for 
many  miles  through  a  lovely  valley,  shrouded  by  groves,  and  dotted 
by  Dutch  farmhouses,  and  empties  itself  into  the  Hudson,  at  the 
ancient  Dorp  of  Yonkers.  The  Pocantico,  rising  among  woody 
dells,  winds  in  many  a  wizard  maze  through  the  sequestered  haunts 
of  Sleepy  Hollow. 


^ 


1 


Wolfert's  Roost  33 

In  a  little  while  the  debatable  ground  became  in- 
fested by  roving  bands,  claiming  from  either  side,  and 
all  pretending  to  redress  wrongs  and  punish  political 
offences;  but  all  prone  in  the  exercise  of  their  high 
functions,  to  sack  henroosts,  drive  off  cattle,  and  lay 
farmhouses  under  contribution;  such  was  the  origin 
of  two  great  orders  of  border  chivalry,  the  Skinners  and 
the  Cow  Boys,  famous  in  Revolutionary  story:  the 
former  fought,  or  rather  marauded,  under  the  American, 
the  latter,  under  the  British  banner.  In  the  zeal  of 
service,  both  were  apt  to  make  blunders,  and  confound 
the  property  of  friend  and  foe.  Neither  of  them  in  the 
heat  and  hurry  of  a  foray  had  time  to  ascertain  the 
politics  of  a  horse  or  cow,  which  they  were  driving  off 
into  captivity;  nor,  when  they  wrung  the  neck  of  a 
rooster,  did  they  trouble  their  heads  whether  he  crowed 
for  Congress  or  King  George. 

To  check  these  enormities,  a  confederacy  was  formed 
among  the  yeomanry  who  had  suffered  from  these 
maraudings.  It  was  composed  for  the  most  part  of 
farmers'  sons,  bold,  hard-riding  lads,  well  armed,  and 
well  mounted,  and  undertook  to  clear  the  country 
round  of  Skinner  and  Cow  Boy,  and  all  other  bor- 
der vermin;  as  the  Holy  Brotherhood  in  old  times 
cleared  Spain  of  the  banditti  which  infested  her  high- 
ways. 

Wolfert's  Roost  was  one  of  the  rallying  places  of  this 
confederacy,  and  Jacob  Van  Tassel  one  of  its  members. 
He  was  eminently  fitted  for  the  service;  stout  of  frame, 
bold  of  heart,  and  like  his  predecessor,  the  warrior 
sachem  of  yore,  delighting  in  daring  enterprises.     He 


34  Stones  of  the  Hudson 

had  an  Indian's  sagacity  in  discovering  when  the  enemy 
was  on  the  maraud,  and  in  hearing  the  distant  tramp 
of  cattle.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had  a  scout  on  every  hill, 
and  an  ear  as  quick  as  that  of  Fine  Ear  in  the  fairy 
tale. 

The  foraging  parties  of  Tories  and  refugees  had  now 
to  be  secret  and  sudden  in  their  forays  into  West- 
chester County;  to  make  a  hasty  maraud  among  the 
farms,  sweep  the  cattle  into  a  drove,  and  hurry  down 
to  the  lines  along  the  river  road,  or  the  valley  of  the 
Neperan.  Before  they  were  half  way  down,  Jacob  Van 
Tassel,  with  the  holy  brotherhood  of  Tarrytown,  Petti- 
coat Lane,  and  Sleepy  Hollow,  would  be  clattering  at 
their  heels.  And  now  there  would  be  a  general  scamper 
for  King's  Bridge,  the  pass  over  Spiting  Devil  Creek, 
into  the  British  lines.  Sometimes  the  mosstroopers 
would  be  overtaken,  and  eased  of  part  of  their  booty. 
Sometimes  the  whole  cavalgada  would  urge  its  head- 
long course  across  the  bridge  with  thundering  tramp 
and  dusty  whirlwind.  At  such  times  their  pursuers 
would  rein  up  their  steeds,  survey  that  perilous 
pass  with  wary  eye,  and,  wheeling  about,  indemnify 
themselves  by  foraging  the  refugee  region  of  Morri- 
sania. 

While  the  debatable  land  was  liable  to  be  thus  har- 
ried, the  great  Tappan  Sea,  along  which  it  extends, 
was  likewise  domineered  over  by  the  foe.  British  ships 
of  war  were  anchored  here  and  there  in  the  wide  ex- 
panses of  the  river,  mere  floating  castles  to  hold  it  in 
subjection.  Stout  galleys  armed  with  eighteen  pounders 
and  navigated  with  sails  and  oars,  cruised  about  like 


Wolfert's  Roost  35 

hawks,  while  rowboats  made  descents  upon  the  land, 
and  foraged  the  country  along  shore. 

It  was  a  sore  grievance  to  the  yeomanry  along  the 
Tappan  Sea  to  behold  that  little  Mediterranean 
ploughed  by  hostile  prows,  and  the  noble  river  of  which 
they  were  so  proud  reduced  to  a  state  of  thraldom. 
Councils  of  war  were  held  by  captains  of  market-boats 
and  other  river-craft,  to  devise  ways  and  means  of  dis- 
lodging the  enemy.  Here  and  there  on  a  point  of  land 
extending  into  the  Tappan  Sea,  a  mud  work  would  be 
thrown  up,  and  an  old  fieldpiece  mounted,  with  which 
a  knot  of  rustic  artillerymen  would  fire  away  for  a  long 
summer's  day  at  some  frigate  dozing  at  anchor  far  out 
of  reach;  and  reliques  of  such  works  may  still  be  seen 
overgrown  with  weeds  and  brambles,  with  peradventure 
the  half-buried  fragment  of  a  cannon  which  may  have 
burst. 

Jacob  Van  Tassel  was  a  prominent  man  in  these 
belligerent  operations;  but  he  was  prone,  moreover, 
to  carry  on  a  petty  warfare  of  his  own  for  his  individual 
recreation  and  refreshment.  On  a  row  of  hooks  above 
the  fireplace  of  the  Roost,  reposed  his  great  piece  of 
ordnance — a  duck,  or  rather  goose-gun,  of  unparalleled 
longitude,  with  which  it  was  said  he  could  kill  a  wild 
goose  half  way  across  the  Tappan  Sea.  Indeed,  there 
are  as  many  wonders  told  of  this  renowned  gun,  as  of 
the  enchanted  weapons  of  classic  story.  When  the 
belligerent  feeling  was  strong  upon  Jacob,  he  would 
take  down  his  gun,  sally  forth  alone,  and  prowl  along 
shore,  dodging  behind  rocks  and  trees,  watching  for 
hours  together  any  ship  or  galley  at  anchor  or  becalmed, 


36  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

as  a  valorous  mouser  will  watch  a  rat-hole.  So  sure  as  a 
boat  approached  the  shore,  bang!  went  the  great  goose- 
gun,  sending  on  board  a  shower  of  slugs  and  buckshot; 
and  away  scuttled  Jacob  Van  Tassel  through  some 
woody  ravine.  As  the  Roost  stood  in  a  lonely  situation, 
and  might  be  attacked,  he  guarded  against  surprise  by 
making  loop-holes  in  the  stone  walls,  through  which  to 
fire  upon  an  assailant.  His  wife  was  stout-hearted  as 
himself,  and  could  load  as  fast  as  he  could  fire;  and  his 
sister,  Nochie  Van  Wurmer,  a  redoubtable  widow,  was 
a  match,  as  he  said,  for  the  stoutest  man  in  the  country. 
Thus  garrisoned,  his  little  castle  was  fitted  to  stand  a 
siege,  and  Jacob  was  the  man  to  defend  it  to  the  last 
charge  of  powder. 

In  the  process  of  time  the  Roost  became  one  of  the 
secret  stations,  or  lurking-places,  of  the  Water  Guard. 
This  was  an  aquatic  corps  in  the  pay  of  government, 
organized  to  range  the  waters  of  the  Hudson,  and  keep 
watch  upon  the  movements  of  the  enemy.  It  was  com- 
posed of  nautical  men  of  the  river,  and  hardy  young- 
sters of  the  adjacent  country,  expert  at  pulling  an  oar 
or  handling  a  musket.  They  were  provided  with  whale- 
boats,  long  and  sharp,  shaped  like  canoes,  and  formed 
to  lie  lightly  on  the  water,  and  be  rowed  with  great 
rapidity.  In  these  they  would  lurk  out  of  sight  by  day, 
in  nooks  and  bays,  and  behind  points  of  land,  keeping 
a  sharp  lookout  upon  the  British  ships,  and  giving 
intelligence  to  headquarters  of  any  extraordinary 
movement.  At  night  they  rowed  about  in  pairs,  pulling 
quietly  along  witli  muffled  oars,  under  shadow  of  the 
land,  or  gliding  like  spectres  about  frigates  and  guard- 


Beam  Island 


Wolfert's  Roost  37 

ships  to  cut  off  any  boat  that  might  be  sent  to  shore. 
In  this  way  they  were  a  source  of  constant  uneasiness 
and  alarm  to  the  enemy. 

The  Roost,  as  has  been  observed,  was  one  of  their 
lurking-places;  having  a  cove  in  front  where  their 
whaleboats  could  be  drawn  up  out  of  sight,  and  Jacob 
Van  Tassel  being  a  vigilant  ally,  ready  to  take  a  part 
in  any  "scout  or  scrummage"  by  land  or  water.  At 
this  little  warrior  nest  the  hard-riding  lads  from  the 
hills  would  hold  consultations  with  the  chivalry  of  the 
river,  and  here  were  concerted  divers  of  those  daring 
enterprises  which  resounded  from  Spiting  Devil  Creek 
even  unto  Anthony's  Nose.  Here  was  concocted  the 
midnight  invasion  of  New  York  Island,  and  the  con- 
flagration of  Delancy's  Tory  mansion,  which  makes 
such  a  blaze  in  revolutionary  history.  Nay,  more,  if 
the  traditions  of  the  Roost  may  be  credited,  here  was 
meditated,  by  Jacob  Van  Tassel  and  his  compeers,  a 
nocturnal  foray  into  New  York  itself,  to  surprise  and 
carry  off  the  British  commanders,  Howe  and  Clinton, 
and  put  a  triumphant  close  to  the  war. 

There  is  no  knowing  whether  this  notable  scheme 
might  not  have  been  carried  into  effect,  had  not  one  of 
Jacob  Van  Tassel's  egregious  exploits  along  shore  with 
his  goose-gun,  with  which  he  thought  himself  a  match 
for  anything,  brought  vengeance  on  his  house. 

It  so  happened,  that  in  the  course  of  one  of  his  soli- 
tary prowls  he  descried  a  British  transport  aground; 
the  stern  swung  toward  shore  within  point-blank  shot. 
The  temptation  was  too  great  to  be  resisted.  Bang! 
went  the  great  goose-gun,  from  the  covert  of  the  trees, 


38  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

shivering  the  cabin  windows  and  driving  all  hands  for- 
ward. Bang!  bang!  the  shots  were  repeated.  The 
reports  brought  other  of  Jacob's  fellow  bush-fighters 
to  the  spot.  Before  the  transport  could  bring  a  gun  to 
bear,  or  land  a  boat  to  take  revenge,  she  was  soundly 
peppered,  and  the  coast  evacuated. 

This  was  the  last  of  Jacob's  triumphs.  He  fared  like 
some  heroic  spider  that  has  unwittingly  ensnared  a 
hornet  to  the  utter  ruin  of  his  web.  It  was  not  long 
after  the  above  exploit  that  he  fell  into  the  hands  of  the 
enemy  in  the  course  of  one  of  his  forays,  and  was  carried 
away  prisoner  to  New  York.  The  Roost  itself,  as  a 
pestilent  rebel  nest,  was  marked  out  for  signal  pun- 
ishment. The  cock  of  the  Roost  being  captive,  there 
was  none  to  garrison  it  but  his  stout-hearted  spouse, 
his  redoubtable  sister,  Nochie  Van  Wurmer,  and  Dinah, 
a  strapping  negro  wench.  An  armed  vessel  came  to 
anchor  in  front;  a  boat  full  of  men  pulled  to  shore. 
The  garrison  flew  to  arms;  that  is  to  say,  to  mops, 
broomsticks,  shovels,  tongs,  and  all  kinds  of  domestic 
weapons — for  unluckily  the  great  piece  of  ordnance, 
the  goose-gun,  was  absent  with  its  owner.  Above  all, 
a  vigorous  defence  was  made  with  that  most  potent  of 
female  weapons,  the  tongue.  Never  did  invaded  hen- 
roost make  a  more  vociferous  outcry.  It  was  all  in 
vain.  The  house  was  sacked  and  plundered,  fire  was 
set  to  each  corner,  and  in  a  few  moments  its  blaze  shed 
a  baleful  light  far  over  the  Tappan  Sea.  The  invaders 
then  pounced  upon  the  blooming  Laney  Van  Tassel, 
the  beauty  of  the  Roost,  and  endeavored  to  bear  her 
off  to  the  boat.    But  here  was  the  real  tug  of  war.    The 


Wolfert's  Roost  39 

mother,  the  aunt,  and  the  strapping  negro  wench,  all 
flew  to  the  rescue.  The  struggle  continued  down  to 
the  very  water's  edge,  when  a  voice  from  the  armed 
vessel  at  anchor  ordered  the  spoilers  to  desist;  they 
relinquished  their  prize,  jumped  into  their  boats,  and 
pulled  off,  and  the  heroine  of  the  Roost  escaped  with  a 
mere  rumpling  of  her  feathers. 

As  to  the  stout  Jacob  himself,  he  was  detained  a 
prisoner  in  New  York  for  the  greater  part  of  the  war; 
in  the  meantime  the  Roost  remained  a  melancholy 
ruin,  its  stone  walls  and  brick  chimneys  alone  standing, 
the  resorts  of  bats  and  owls.  Superstitious  notions 
prevailed  about  it.  None  of  the  country  people  would 
venture  alone  at  night  down  the  rambling  lane  which 
led  to  it,  overhung  with  trees,  and  crossed  here  and 
there  by  a  wild  wandering  brook.  The  story  went 
that  one  of  the  victims  of  Jacob  Van  Tassel's  great 
goose-gun  had  been  buried  there  in  unconsecrated 
ground. 

Even  the  Tappan  Sea  in  front  was  said  to  be  haunted. 
Often  in  the  still  twilight  of  a  summer  evening,  when 
the  sea  would  be  as  glass,  and  the  opposite  hills  would 
throw  their  purple  shadows  half  across  it,  a  low  sound 
would  be  heard  as  of  the  steady,  vigorous  pull  of  oars, 
though  not  a  boat  was  to  be  descried.  Some  might 
have  supposed  that  a  boat  was  rowed  along  unseen 
under  the  deep  shadows  of  the  opposite  shores;  but  the 
ancient  traditionists  of  the  neighborhood  knew  better. 
Some  said  it  was  one  of  the  whaleboats  of  the  old 
Water  Guard,  sunk  by  the  British  ships  during  the  war, 
but  now  permitted  to  haunt  its  old  cruising-grounds; 


40  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

but  the  prevalent  opinion  connected  it  with  the  awful 
fate  of  Rambout  Van  Dam  of  graceless  memory.  He 
was  a  roistering  Dutchman  of  Spiting  Devil,  who  in 
times  long  past  had  navigated  his  boat  alone  one  Sat- 
urday the  whole  length  of  the  Tappan  Sea,  to  attend 
a  quilting  frolic  at  Kakiat,  on  the  western  shore.  Here 
he  had  danced  and  drunk  until  midnight,  when  he 
entered  his  boat  to  return  home.  He  was  warned  that 
he  was  on  the  verge  of  Sunday  morning;  but  he  pulled 
off  nevertheless,  swearing  he  would  not  land  until  he 
reached  Spiting  Devil,  if  it  took  him  a  month  of  Sun- 
days. He  was  never  seen  afterwards;  but  may  be 
heard  plying  his  oars,  as  above  mentioned — being  the 
Flying  Dutchman  of  the  Tappan  Sea,  doomed  to  ply 
between  Kakiat  and  Spiting  Devil  until  the  day  of 
judgment. 


Chronicle  HI 


The  Revolutionary  War  was  over.  The  debatable 
ground  had  once  more  become  a  quiet  agricultural 
region;  the  border  chivalry  had  turned  their  swords 
into  ploughshares,  and  their  spears  into  pruning-hooks, 
and  hung  up  their  guns,  only  to  be  taken  down  occa- 
sionally in  a  campaign  against  wild  pigeons  on  the  hills, 
or  wild  ducks  upon  the  Hudson.  Jacob  Van  Tassel, 
whilom  carried  captive  to  New  York,  a  flagitious 
rebel,  had  come  forth  from  captivity  a  "hero  of  seventy- 
six."    In  a  little  while  he  sought  the  scenes  of  his  former 


I 


Wolfert's  Roost  41 

triumphs  and  mishaps,  rebuilt  the  Roost,  restored  his 
goose-gun  to  the  hooks  over  the  fireplace,  and  reared 
once  more  on  high  the  glittering  weathercocks. 

Years  and  years  passed  over  the  time-honored  little 
mansion.  The  honeysuckle  and  the  sweetbrier  crept 
up  its  walls;  the  wren  and  the  phoebe-bird  built  under 
the  eaves;  it  gradually  became  almost  hidden  among 
trees,  through  which  it  looked  forth,  as  with  half-shut  V 
eyes,  upon  the  Tappan  Sea.  The  Indian  spring,  famous  ' 
In  the  days  of  the  wizard  sachem,  still  welled  up  at  the 
bottom  of  the  green  bank;  and  the  wild  brook,  wild  as 
ever,  came  babbling  down  the  ravine,  and  threw  itself 
Into  the  little  cove  where  of  yore  the  Water  Guard 
harbored  their  whaleboats. 

Such  was  the  state  of  the  Roost  many  years  since,  at 
the  time  when  DIedrich  Knickerbocker  came  into  this 
neighborhood,  in  the  course  of  his  researches  among  the 
Dutch  families  for  materials  for  his  Immortal  history. 
The  exterior  of  the  eventful  little  pile  seemed  to  him 
full  of  promise.  The  crow-step  gables  were  of  the  primi- 
tive architecture  of  the  province.  The  weathercocks 
which  surmounted  them  had  crowed  In  the  glorious 
days  of  the  New  Netherlands.  The  one  above  the 
porch  had  actually  glittered  of  yore  on  the  great  Vander 
Heyden  palace  at  Albany. 

The  Interior  of  the  mansion  fulfilled  Its  external 
promise.  Here  were  records  of  old  times;  documents 
of  the  Dutch  dynasty,  rescued  from  the  profane  hands 
of  the  English  by  Wolfert  Acker,  when  he  retreated 
from  New  Amsterdam.  Here  he  had  treasured  them 
up  like  buried  gold,  and  here  they  had  been  miraculously 


42  Stones  of  the  Hudson 

preserved  by  St.  Nicholas,  at  the  time  of  the  conflagra- 
tion of  the  Roost. 

Here  then  did  old  Diedrich  Knickerbocker  take  up 
his  abode  for  a  time  and  set  to  work  with  antiquarian 
zeal  to  decipher  these  precious  documents,  which,  like 
the  lost  books  of  Livy,  had  baffled  the  research  of  former 
historians;  and  it  is  the  facts  drawn  from  these  sources 
which  give  his  work  the  preference,  in  point  of  accuracy, 
over  every  other  history. 

It  was  during  his  sojourn  in  this  eventful  neighbor- 
hood that  the  historian  is  supposed  to  have  picked  up 
many  of  those  legends,  which  have  since  been  given  by 
him  to  the  world,  or  found  among  his  papers.  Such 
was  the  legend  connected  with  the  old  Dutch  church 
of  Sleepy  Hollow.  The  church  itself  was  a  monument  of 
bygone  days.  It  had  been  built  in  the  early  times 
of  the  province.  A  tablet  over  the  portal  bore  the  names 
of  its  founders — Frederick  Filipson,  a  mighty  man  of 
yore,  patroon  of  Yonkers,  and  his  wife  Katrina  Van 
Courtland,  of  the  Van  Courtlands  of  Croton;  a  power- 
ful family  connection,  with  one  foot  resting  on  Spiting 
Devil  Creek,  and  the  other  on  the  Croton  River. 

Two  weathercocks,  with  the  initials  of  these  illustrious 
personages,  graced  each  end  of  the  church,  one  perched 
over  the  belfry,  the  other  over  the  chancel.  As  usual 
with  ecclesiastical  weathercocks,  each  pointed  a  dif- 
ferent way;  and  there  was  a  perpetual  contradiction 
between  them  on  all  points  of  windy  doctrine;  em- 
blematic, alas!  of  tlic  Christian  propensity  to  schism 
and  controversy. 

In  the  burying-ground    adjacent  to  the  church,  re- 


Wolfert's  Roost  43 

posed  the  earliest  fathers  of  a  wide  rural  neighborhood. 
Here  families  were  garnered  together,  side  by  side,  in 
long  platoons,  in  this  last  gathering  place  of  kindred. 
With  pious  hand  would  Diedrich  Knickerbocker  turn 
down  the  weeds  and  brambles  which  had  overgrown 
the  tombstones,  to  decipher  inscriptions  in  Dutch  and 
English,  of  the  names  and  virtues  of  succeeding  genera- 
tions of  Van  Tassels,  Van  Warts,  and  other  historical 
worthies,  with  their  portraitures  faithfully  carved,  all 
bearing  the  family  likeness  to  cherubs. 

The  congregation  in  those  days  was  of  a  truly  rural 
character.  City  fashions  had  not  as  yet  stole  up  to 
Sleepy  Hollow.  Dutch  sunbonnets  and  honest  home- 
spun still  prevailed.  Everything  was  in  primitive  style, 
even  to  the  bucket  of  water  and  tin  cup  near  the  door 
in  summer,  to  assuage  the  thirst  caused  by  the  heat  of 
the  weather  or  the  drought  of  the  sermon. 

The  pulpit,  with  its  widespreading  sounding  board, 
and  the  communion  table,  curiously  carved,  had  each 
come  from  Holland  in  the  olden  time,  before  the  arts 
had  sufficiently  advanced  in  the  colony  for  such  achieve- 
ments. Around  these  on  Sundays  would  be  gathered 
the  elders  of  the  church,  gray-headed  men,  who  led  the 
psalmody,  and  in  whom  it  would  be  difficult  to  recog- 
nize the  hard-riding  lads  of  yore,  who  scoured  the 
debatable  land  in  the  time  of  the  Revolution. 

The  drowsy  influence  of  Sleepy  Hollow  was  apt  to 
breathe  into  this  sacred  edifice;  and  now  and  then  an 
elder  might  be  seen  with  his  handkerchief  over  his  face 
to  keep  off  the  flies,  and  apparently  listening  to  the 
dominie;     but    really    sunk    into    a    summer    slumber, 


44  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

lulled  by  the  sultry  notes  of  the  locust  from  the  neigh- 
boring trees. 

And  now  a  word  or  two  about  Sleepy  Hollow,  which 
many  have  rashly  deemed  a  fanciful  creation,  like  the 
Lubberland  of  mariners.  It  was  probably  the  mystic 
and  dreamy  sound  of  the  name  which  first  tempted  the 
historian  of  the  Manhattoes  into  its  spell-bound  mazes. 
As  he  entered,  all  nature  seemed  for  the  moment  to 
awake  from  its  slumbers  and  break  forth  in  gratulations. 
The  quail  whistled  a  welcome  from  the  cornfield;  the 
loquacious  catbird  flew  from  bush  to  bush  with  restless 
wing  proclaiming  his  approach,  or  perked  inquisitively 
into  his  face  as  if  to  get  a  knowledge  of  his  physiognomy. 
;  The  woodpecker  tapped  a  tattoo  on  the  hollow  apple 
tree,  and  then  peered  round  the  trunk,  as  if  asking  how 
he  relished  the  salutation;  while  the  squirrel  scampered 
along  the  fence,  whisking  his  tail  over  his  head  by  way 
of  a  huzza. 

Here  reigned  the  golden  mean  extolled  by  poets,  in 
which  no  gold  was  to  be  found  and  very  little  silver. 
The  inhabitants  of  the  Hollow  were  of  the  primitive 
stock,  and  had  intermarried  and  bred  in  and  in,  from 
the  earliest  time  of  the  province,  never  swarming  far 
from  the  parent  hive,  but  dividing  and  subdividing 
their  paternal  acres  as  they  swarmed. 

Here  were  small  farms,  each  having  its  little  portion 
of  meadow  and  cornfield;  its  orchard  of  gnarled  an4 
sprawling  apple  trees;  its  garden,  in  which  the  rose,) 
the  marigold,  and  hollyhock,  grew  sociably  with  the' 
cabbage,  the  pea,  and  the  pumpkin;  each  had  its  low- 
eaved  mansion  redundant  with  white-headed  children; 


In  Sleepy  HoUozv  Churchyard 
Near  the  summit  of  the  hill,   under  the  trees,  is  Irving  s  grave 


Wolfert's  Roost  45 

with  an  old  hat  nailed  against  the  wall  for  the  house- 
keeping wren;  the  coop  on  the  grassplot,  where  the 
motherly  hen  clucked  round  with  her  vagrant  brood: 
each  had  its  stone  well,  with  a  moss-covered  bucket 
suspended  to  the  long  balancing-pole,  according  to 
antediluvian  hydraulics;  while  within  doors  resounded 
the  eternal  hum  of  the  spinning  wheel. 

Many  were  the  great  historical  facts  which  the  worthy 
Diedrich  collected  in  these  lowly  mansions,  and  pa- 
tiently would  he  sit  by  the  old  Dutch  housewives  with 
a  child  on  his  knee,  or  a  purring  grimalkin  on  his  lap, 
listing  to  endless  ghost  stories  spun  forth  to  the  hum- 
ming accompaniment  of  the  wheel. 

The  delighted  historian  pursued  his  explorations  far 
into  the  foldings  of  the  hills  where  the  Pocantico  winds 
its  wizard  stream  among  the  mazes  of  its  old  Indian 
haunts;  sometimes  running  darkly  in  pieces  of  wood- 
land beneath  balancing  sprays  of  beech  and  chestnut; 
sometimes  sparkling  between  grassy  borders  in  fresh, 
green  intervals;  here  and  there  receiving  the  tributes 
of  silver  rills  which  came  whimpering  down  the  hill- 
sides from  their  parent  springs. 

In  a  remote  part  of  the  Hollow,  where  the  Pocantico 
forced  its  way  down  rugged  rocks,  stood  Carl's  mill, 
the  haunted  house  of  the  neighborhood.  It  was  indeed 
a  goblin-looking  pile;  shattered  and  timeworn,  dismal 
with  clanking  wheels  and  rushing  streams,  and  all  kinds 
of  uncouth  noises.  A  horseshoe  nailed  to  the  door  to 
keep  off  witches,  seemed  to  have  lost  its  power;  for  as 
Diedrich  approached,  an  old  negro  thrust  his  head  all 
dabbled  with  flour  out  of  a  hole  above  the  water  wheel. 


46  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

and  grinned  and  rolled  his  eyes,  and  appeared  to  be  the 
very  hobgoblin  of  the  place.  Yet  this  proved  to  be  the 
great  historic  genius  of  the  Hollow,  abounding  in  that 
valuable  information  never  to  be  acquired  from  books. 
Diedrich  Knickerbocker  soon  discovered  his  merit. 
They  had  long  talks  together  seated  on  a  broken  mill- 
stone, heedless  of  the  water  and  the  clatter  of  the  mill; 
and  to  his  conference  with  that  African  sage  many 
attribute  the  surprising,  though  true  story,  of  Ichabod 
Crane  and  the  Headless  Horseman  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 
We  refrain,  however,  from  giving  further  researches  of 
the  historian  of  the  Manhattoes  during  his  sojourn 
at  the  Roost,  but  may  return  to  them  in  future 
pages. 

Reader,  the  Roost  still  exists.  Time,  which  changes 
all  things,  is  slow  in  its  operations  on  a  Dutchman's 
dwelling.  The  stout  Jacob  Van  Tassel,  it  is  true,  sleeps 
with  his  fathers;  and  his  great  goose-gun  with  him: 
yet  his  stronghold  still  bears  the  impress  of  its  Dutch 
origin.  Odd  rumors  have  gathered  about  it,  as  they 
are  apt  to  do  about  old  mansions,  like  moss  and  weather- 
stains.  The  shade  of  Wolfert  Acker  still  walks  his 
unquiet  rounds  at  night  in  the  orchard;  and  a  white 
figure  has  now  and  then  been  seen  seated  at  a  window 
and  gazing  at  the  moon,  from  a  room  in  which  a  young 
lady  is  said  to  have  died  of  love  and  green  apples. 

Mementos  of  the  sojourn  of  Diedrich  Knickerbocker 
are  still  cherished  at  the  Roost.  His  elbow  chair  and 
antique  writing  desk  maintain  their  place  in  the  room 
he  occupied,  and  his  old  cocked  hat  still  hangs  on  a  peg 
against  the  wall. 


PETER  STUYVESANT'S  VOYAGE  UP 
.     THE  HUDSON 

"^^OW  did  the  soft  breezes  of  the  south  steal  sweetly 
over  the  face  of  nature,  tempering  the  panting 
heats  of  summer  into  genial  and  prolific  warmth,  when 
that  miracle  of  hardihood  and  chivalric  virtue,  the 
dauntless  Peter  Stuyvesant,  spread  his  canvas  to  the 
wind,  and  departed  from  the  fair  Island  of  Manna- 
hata.  The  galley  in  which  he  embarked  was  sumptu- 
ously adorned  with  pendants  and  streamers  of  gor- 
geous dyes,  which  fluttered  gayly  in  the  wind,  or  drooped 
their  ends  into  the  bosom  of  the  stream.  The  bow  and 
poop  of  this  majestic  vessel  were  gallantly  bedight, 
after  the  rarest  Dutch  fashion,  with  figures  of  little 
pursy  Cupids  with  periwigs  on  their  heads,  and  bear- 
ing in  their  hands  garlands  of  flowers,  the  like  of  which 
are  not  to  be  found  in  any  book  of  botany;  being  the 
matchless  flowers  which  flourished  in  the  golden  age, 
and  exist  no  longer,  unless  it  be  in  the  imaginations 
of  ingenious  carvers  of  wood  and  discolorers  of 
canvas. 

Thus  rarely  decorated,  in  style  befitting  the  puis- 
sant potentate  of  the  Manhattoes,  did  the  galley  of 
Peter  Stuyvesant  launch  forth  upon  the  bosom  of  the 
lordly  Hudson,  which,  as  it  rolled  its  broad  waves  to 


48  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

the  ocean,  seemed  to  pause  for  a  while  and  swell  with 
pride,  as  if  conscious  of  the  illustrious  burden  it  sus- 
tained. 

But  trust  me,  gentlefolk,  far  other  was  the  scene 
presented  to  the  contemplation  of  the  crew  from  that 
which  may  be  witnessed  at  this  degenerate  day. 
Wildness  and  savage  majesty  reigned  on  the  borders 
of  this  mighty  river — the  hand  of  cultivation  had  not 
as  yet  laid  low  the  dark  forest,  and  tamed  the  features 
of  the  landscape — nor  had  the  frequent  sail  of  com- 
merce broken  in  upon  the  profound  and  awful  solitude 
of  ages.  Here  and  there  might  be  seen  a  rude  wigwam 
perched  among  the  cliffs  of  the  mountains  with  its 
curling  column  of  smoke  mounting  in  the  transparent 
atmosphere — but  so  loftily  situated  that  the  whoop- 
ings  of  the  savage  children,  gambolling  on  the  margin 
of  the  dizzy  heights,  fell  almost  as  faintly  on  the  ear 
as  do  the  notes  of  the  lark,  when  lost  in  the  azure  vault 
of  heaven.  Now  and  then,  from  the  beetling  brow  of 
some  precipice,  the  wild  deer  would  look  timidly  down 
upon  the  splendid  pageant  as  it  passed  below;  and 
then,  tossing  his  antlers  in  the  air,  would  bound  away 
into  the  thickets  of  the  forest. 

Through  such  scenes  did  the  stately  vessel  of  Peter 
Stuyvesant  pass.  Now  did  they  skirt  the  bases  of  the 
rocky  heights  of  Jersey,  which  spring  up  like  everlast- 
ing walls,  reaching  from  the  waves  unto  the  heavens, 
and  were  fashioned,  if  tradition  may  be  believed,  in 
times  long  past,  by  the  mighty  spirit  Manetho,  to  pro- 
tect his  favorite  abodes  from  the  unhallowed  eyes  of 
mortals.     Now  did  they  career  it  gayly  across  the  vast 


Peter  Stuyvesant's  Voyage  up  the  Hudson    49 

expanse  of  Tappan  Bay,  whose  wide-extended  shores 
present  a  variety  of  delectable  scenery — here  the  bold 
promontory,  crowned  with  embowering  trees,  advanc- 
ing into  the  bay — there  the  long  woodland  slope,  sweep- 
ing up  from  the  shore  in  rich  luxuriance,  and  terminat- 
ing in  the  upland  precipice — while  at  a  distance  a  long 
waving  line  of  rocky  heights  threw  their  gigantic  shades 
across  the  water.  Now  would  they  pass  where  some 
modest  little  intervale,  opening  among  these  stupendous 
scenes,  yet  retreating  as  it  were  for  protection  into  the 
embraces  of  the  neighboring  mountains,  displayed  a 
rural  paradise,  fraught  with  sweet  and  pastoral  beauties; 
the  velvet-tufted  lawn — the  bushy  copse — the  twink- 
ling rivulet,  stealing  through  the  fresh  and  vivid  ver- 
dure— on  whose  banks  was  situated  some  little  Indian 
village,  or,  peradventure,  the  rude  cabin  of  some  soli- 
tary hunter. 

The  different  periods  of  the  revolving  day  seemed 
each,  with  cunning  magic,  to  diffuse  a  different  charm 
to  the  scene.  Now  would  the  jovial  sun  break  glori- 
ously from  the  east,  blazing  from  the  summits  of  the 
hills,  and  sparkling  the  landscape  with  a  thousand 
dewy  gems;  while  along  the  borders  of  the  river  were 
seen  heavy  masses  of  mist,  which,  like  midnight 
caitiffs,  disturbed  at  his  approach,  made  a  sluggish 
retreat,  rolling  in  sullen  reluctance  up  the  mountains. 
At  such  times  all  was  brightness,  and  life,  and  gayety 
— the  atmosphere  was  of  an  indescribable  pureness  and 
transparency — the  birds  broke  forth  in  wanton  mad- 
rigals, and  the  freshening  breezes  wafted  the  vessel 
merrily  on  her  course.    But  when  the  sun  sank  amid  a 


50  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

flood  of  glory  in  the  west,  mantHng  the  heavens  and 
the  earth  with  a  thousand  gorgeous  dyes — then  all 
was  calm,  and  silent,  and  magnificent.  The  late  swell- 
ing sail  hung  lifelessly  against  the  mast — the  seaman, 
with  folded  arms,  leaned  against  the  shrouds,  lost  in 
that  involuntary  musing  which  the  sober  grandeur  of 
nature  commands  in  the  rudest  of  her  children.  The 
vast  bosom  of  the  Hudson  was  like  an  unruffled  mirror, 
reflecting  the  golden  splendor  of  the  heavens;  except- 
ing that  now  and  then  a  bark  canoe  would  steal  across 
its  surface,  filled  with  painted  savages,  whose  gay 
feathers  glared  brightly,  as  perchance  a  lingering  ray 
of  the  setting  sun  gleamed  upon  them  from  the  western 
mountains. 

But  when  the  hour  of  twilight  spread  its  majestic 
mists  around,  then  did  the  face  of  nature  assume  a 
thousand  fugitive  charms,  which  to  the  worthy  heart 
that  seeks  enjoyment  in  the  glorious  works  of  its  Maker 
are  inexpressibly  captivating.  The  mellow  dubious 
light  that  prevailed  just  served  to  tinge  with  illusive 
colors  the  softened  features  of  the  scenery.  The  de- 
ceived but  delighted  eye  sought  vainly  to  discern  in  the 
broad  masses  of  shade,  the  separating  line  between  the 
land  and  water;  or  to  distinguish  the  fading  objects 
that  seemed  sinking  into  chaos.  Now  did  the  busy 
fancy  supply  the  feebleness  of  vision,  producing  with 
industrious  craft  a  fairy  creation  of  her  own.  Under 
her  plastic  wand  the  barren  rocks  frowned  upon  the 
watery  waste,  in  the  semblance  of  lofty  towers  and 
high  embattled  castles — trees  assumed  the  direful 
forms  of  mighty  giants,  and  the  inaccessible  summits 


Peter  Stuyvesant's  Voyage  up  the  Hudson    51 

of  the  mountains  seemed  peopled  with  a  thousand 
shadowy  beings. 

Now  broke  forth  from  the  shores  the  notes  of  an 
innumerable  variety  of  insects,  which  filled  the  air 
with  a  strange  but  not  inharmonious  concert — while  ever 
and  anon  was  heard  the  melancholy  plaint  of  the  Whip- 
poorwill,  who,  perched  on  some  lone  tree,  wearied  the 
ear  of  night  with  his  incessant  moanings.  The  mind, 
soothed  into  a  hallowed  melancholy,  listened  with 
pensive  stillness,  to  catch  and  distinguish  each  sound 
that  vaguely  echoed  from  the  shore — now  and  then 
startled  perchance  by  the  whoop  of  some  straggling 
savage,  or  by  the  dreary  howl  of  a  wolf,  stealing  forth 
upon  his  nightly  prowlings. 

Thus  happily  did  they  pursue  their  course,  until 
they  entered  upon  those  awful  defiles  denominated 
THE  Highlands,  where  it  would  seem  that  the  gigantic 
Titans  had  erst  waged  their  impious  war  with  heaven, 
piling  up  cliffs  on  cliffs,  and  hurling  vast  masses  of  rock 
in  wild  confusion.  But  in  sooth  very  different  is  the 
history  of  these  cloud-capped  mountains.  These,  in 
ancient  days,  before  the  Hudson  poured  its  waters  from 
the  lakes,  formed  one  vast  prison,  within  whose  rocky 
bosom  the  omnipotent  Manetho  confined  the  rebellious 
spirits  who  repined  at  his  control.  Here,  bound  in 
adamantine  chains,  or  jammed  in  rifted  pines,  or 
crushed  by  ponderous  rocks,  they  groaned  for  many  an 
age.  At  length,  the  conquering  Hudson,  in  its  career 
towards  the  ocean,  burst  open  their  prison-house, 
rolling  its  tide  triumphantly  through  the  stupendous 
ruins. 


52  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

Still,  however,  do  many  of  them  lurk  about  their  old 
abodes;  and  these  it  is,  according  to  venerable  legends, 
that  cause  the  echoes  which  resound  throughout  these 
awful  solitudes;  which  are  nothing  but  their  angry 
clamors  when  any  noise  disturbs  the  profoundness  of 
their  repose.  For  when  the  elements  are  agitated  by 
tempest,  when  the  winds  are  up  and  the  thunder  rolls, 
then  horrible  is  the  yelling  and  howling  of  these  troubled 
spirits,  making  the  mountains  to  rebellow  with  their 
hideous  uproar;  for  at  such  times  it  is  said  that  they 
think  the  great  Manetho  is  returning  once  more  to 
plunge  them  in  gloomy  caverns,  and  renew  their  intol- 
erable captivity. 

But  all  these  fair  and  glorious  scenes  were  lost  upon 
the  gallant  Stuyvesant;  naught  occupied  his  mind  but 
thoughts  of  iron  war,  and  proud  anticipations  of  hardy 
deeds  of  arms.  Neither  did  his  honest  crew  trouble 
their  heads  with  any  romantic  speculations  of  the  kind. 
The  pilot  at  the  helm  quietly  smoked  his  pipe,  thinking 
of  nothing  either  past,  present,  or  to  come;  those  of 
his  comrades  who  were  not  industriously  smoking  under 
the  hatches  were  listening  with  open  mouths  to  Antony 
Van  Corlear;  who,  seated  on  the  windlass,  was  relating 
to  them  the  marvellous  history  of  those  myriads  of 
fireflies,  that  sparkled  like  gems  and  spangles  upon  the 
dusky  robe  of  night.  These,  according  to  tradition, 
were  originally  a  race  of  pestilent  sempiternous  bel- 
dames, who  peopled  these  parts  long  before  the  memory 
of  man;  being  of  that  abominated  race  emphatically 
called  brimst07ies;  and  who,  for  their  innumerable  sins 
against  the  children  of  men,  and  to  furnish  an  awful 


Peter  Stuyvesant's  Voyage  up  the  Hudson    53 

warning  to  the  beauteous  sex,  were  doomed  to  infest 
the  earth  in  the  shape  of  these  threatening  and  terrible 
little  bugs;  enduring  the  internal  torments  of  that  fire, 
which  they  formerly  carried  in  their  hearts  and  breathed 
forth  in  their  words;  but  now  are  sentenced  to  bear 
about  for  ever — in  their  tails! 

And  now  I  am  going  to  tell  a  fact,  which  I  doubt 
much  my  readers  will  hesitate  to  believe;  but  if  they 
do,  they  are  welcome  not  to  believe  a  word  in  this  whole 
history — for  nothing  which  it  contains  is  more  true. 
It  must  be  known  then  that  the  nose  of  Antony  the 
Trumpeter  was  of  a  very  lusty  size,  strutting  boldly 
from  his  countenance  like  a  mountain  of  Golconda; 
being  sumptuously  bedecked  with  rubies  and  other 
precious  stones — the  true  regalia  of  a  king  of  good  fel- 
lows, which  jolly  Bacchus  grants  to  all  who  bouse  it 
heartily  at  the  flagon.  Now  thus  it  happened,  that 
bright  and  early  in  the  morning,  the  good  Antony, 
having  washed  his  burly  visage,  was  leaning  over  the 
quarter  railing  of  the  galley,  contemplating  it  in  the 
glassy  wave  below.  Just  at  this  moment  the  illustrious 
sun,  breaking  in  all  his  splendor  from  behind  a  high 
bluif  of  the  Highlands,  did  dart  one  of  his  most  potent 
beams  full  upon  the  refulgent  nose  of  the  sounder  of 
brass — the  reflection  of  which  shot  straightway  down 
hissing  hot,  into  the  water,  and  killed  a  mighty  sturgeon 
that  was  sporting  beside  the  vessel !  This  huge  monster, 
being  with  infinite  labor  hoisted  on  board,  furnished  a 
luxurious  repast  to  all  the  crew,  being  accounted  of 
excellent  flavor,  excepting  about  the  wound,  where  it 
smacked  a  little  of  brimstone — and  this,  on  my  verac- 


54  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

ity,  was  the  first  time  that  ever  sturgeon  was  eaten  in 
these  parts  by  Christian  people.* 

When  this  astonishing  miracle  came  to  be  made 
known  to  Peter  Stuyvesant,  and  he  tasted  of  the 
unknown  fish,  he,  as  may  well  be  supposed,  marvelled 
exceedingly:  and  as  a  monument  thereof,  he  gave  the 
name  of  Antonyms  Nose  to  a  stout  promontory  in  the 
neighborhood — and  it  has  continued  to  be  called  An- 
thony's Nose  ever  since  that  time. 

But  hold:  whither  am  I  wandering.^  By  the  mass, 
if  I  attempt  to  accompany  the  good  Peter  Stuyvesant 
on  this  voyage,  I  shall  never  make  an  end;  for  never 
was  there  a  voyage  so  fraught  with  marvellous  inci- 
dents, nor  a  river  so  abounding  with  transcendent 
beauties,  worthy  of  being  severally  recorded.  Even 
now  I  have  it  on  the  point  of  my  pen  to  relate  how  his 
crew  were  most  horribly  frightened,  on  going  on  shore 
above  the  Highlands,  by  a  gang  of  merry  roistering 
devils,  frisking  and  curvetting  on  a  flat  rock,  which  pro- 
jected into  the  river — and  which  is  called  the  DuyveVs 
Dans-Kamer  to  this  very  day.  But  no!  Diedrich 
Knickerbocker — it  becomes  thee  not  to  idle  thus  in 
thy  historic  wayfaring. 

Recollect  that  while  dwelling  with  the  fond  garrulity 
of  age  over  these  fairy  scenes,  endeared  to  thee  by  the 
recollections  of  thy  youth,  and  the  charms  of  a  thousand 

*The  learned  Hans  Megapolonsis,  treating  of  the  countrj'  about 
Albany,  in  a  letter  which  was  written  some  time  after  the  settle- 
ment thereof,  says:  "There  is  in  the  river  great  plenty  of  stur- 
geon which  we  Christians  do  not  make  use  of,  but  the  Indians 
eat  them  greedily." 


Peter  Stuyvesant's  Voyage  up  the  Hudson    55 

legendary  tales,  which  beguiled  the  simple  ear  of  thy 
childhood;  recollect  that  thou  art  trifling  with  those 
fleeting  moments  which  should  be  devoted  to  loftier 
themes.  Is  not  Time — relentless  Time!  shaking,  with 
palsied  hand,  his  almost  exhausted  hourglass  before 
thee? — hasten  then  to  pursue  thy  weary  task,  lest  the 
last  sands  be  run  ere  thou  hast  finished  thy  history  of 
the  Manhattoes. 


THE  CHRONICLE  OF  BEARN  ISLAND  * 


TN  the  golden  days  of  New  Amsterdam,  according  to 
the  accounts  of  its  venerable  historian,  the  ambition 
of  its  burghers  contented  itself  for  a  while  within  the 
bounds  of  the  fair  island  of  Mannahata,  insomuch  that 
Spiting  Devil  and  Hell  Gate  were  to  them  the  pillars  of 
Hercules,  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  human  enterprise.  In 
process  of  time,  however,  the  New  Amsterdamers 
began  to  cast  wistful  looks  at  the  lands  of  their  Indian 
neighbors;  for  somehow  or  other  Indian  land  has  a 
wild  flavor  to  the  taste  of  a  settler,  and  looks  greener  in 
his  eyes  than  the  land  he  lawfully  occupies.  Oloflfe  the 
Dreamer,  at  that  time  protector  of  New  Amsterdam, 
encouraged  these  notions;  having  the  inherent  spirit 
of  a  land  speculator,  quickened  and  expanded  by  his 
having  become  a  landholder.  Under  his  protectorship 
certain  exploring  expeditions  were  sent  forth  "to  sow 
the  seeds  of  empire  in  the  wilderness."  One  of  these 
ascended  the  Hudson  and  established  a  frontier  post, 
or  trading  house,  called  Fort  Aurania,  on  the  site  of  the 
present  venerable  city  of  Albany;  which,  at  that  time, 
was  considered  the  very  end  of  the  habitable  world. 
With  this  remote  possession  the  mother  city  of  New 
Anisterdam  for  a  long  time  held  but  little  intercourse. 
*A  rocky  island  a  few  miles  below  Albany. 

s6 


The  Chronicle  of  Beam  Island  57 

Now  and  then  the  company's  yacht,  as  it  was  called 
(meaning  the  yacht  of  the  Honorable  the  East  India 
Company),  was  sent  to  carry  supplies  to  the  fort  and  to 
bring  away  the  peltries  which  had  been  purchased  of 
the  Indians.  It  was  like  an  expedition  to  the  Indias, 
or  the  North  Pole,  and  always  made  great  talk  in  the 
settlement.  Sometimes  an  adventurous  burgher  would 
accompany  the  expedition,  to  the  great  uneasiness  of 
his  friends;  but,  on  his  return,  had  so  many  stories  to 
tell  of  storms  and  tempests  on  the  Tappan  Zee;  of 
hobgoblins  in  the  Highlands  and  at  the  Devil's  Dans 
Kammer,  and  of  all  the  other  wonders  and  perils  with 
which  the  river  abounded  in  those  early  days,  that  he 
deterred  the  less  adventurous  inhabitants  from  follow- 
ing his  example. 

Matters  remained  in  this  state  until  the  time  of 
Walter  the  Doubter,  and  Fort  Aurania  seemed  as  re- 
mote as  Oregon  in  modern  days.  Now  so  it  happened 
that  one  day  as  that  most  dubious  of  Governors  and 
his  burgermeesters  were  smoking  and  pondering  over  the 
affairs  of  the  province,  they  were  roused  by  the  report  of 
a  cannon.  Sallying  forth,  they  beheld  a  strange  vessel  at 
anchor  in  the  bay.  It  was  unquestionably  of  Dutch 
build;  broad  bottomed  and  high  pooped,  and  bore  the 
flag  of  their  High  Mightinesses  at  the  masthead. 

After  a  while  a  boat  put  off  for  land,  and  a  stranger 
stepped  on  shore,  a  lofty,  lordly  kind  of  man,  tall  and 
dry,  with  a  meagre  face,  furnished  with  huge  mous- 
taches. He  was  clad  in  Flemish  doublet  and  hose,  and 
an  insufferably  tall  hat,  with  a  cocktail  feather.  Such 
was  the  patroon  Killian  Van  Rensellaer,  who  had  come 


58  Stones  of  the  Hudson 

out  from  Holland  to  found  a  colony  or  patroonship  on 
a  great  tract  of  wild  land,  granted  to  him  by  their  High 
Mightinesses,  the  Lords  States  General,  in  the  upper 
regions  of  the  Hudson. 

Killian  Van  Rensellaer  was  a  nine  days'  wonder  in 
New  Amsterdam;  for  he  carried  a  high  head,  looked 
down  upon  the  portly,  short-legged  burgomasters,  and 
owned  no  allegiance  to  the  governor  himself;  boasting 
that  he  held  his  patroonship  directly  from  the  Lords 
States  General. 

He  tarried  but  a  short  time  in  New  Amsterdam; 
merely  to  beat  up  recruits  for  his  colony.  Few,  how- 
ever, ventured  to  enlist  for  those  remote  and  savage 
regions;  and  when  they  embarked,  their  friends  took 
leave  of  them  as  if  they  should  never  see  them  more; 
and  stood  gazing  with  tearful  eye  as  the  stout,  round- 
sterned  little  vessel  ploughed  and  splashed  its  way  up 
the  Hudson,  with  great  noise  and  little  progress,  taking 
nearly  a  day  to  get  out  of  sight  of  the  city. 

And  now,  from  time  to  time,  floated  down  tidings  to 
the  Manhattoes  of  the  growing  importance  of  this  new 
colony.  Every  account  represented  Killian  \^in  Ren- 
sellaer as  rising  in  importance,  and  becoming  a  mighty 
patroon  in  the  land.  He  had  received  more  recruits 
from  Holland.  His  patroonship  of  Rensellaerwick  lay 
immediately  below  Fort  Aurania,  and  extended  for 
several  miles  on  each  side  of  the  Hudson,  besides  em- 
bracing the  mountainous  region  of  the  Helderberg. 
Over  all  this  he  claimed  to  hold  separate  jurisdiction, 
independent  of  the  colonial  authorities  at  New 
Amsterdam. 


The  Chronicle  of  Beam  Island  59 

All  these  assumptions  of  authority  were  duly  re- 
ported to  Governor  Van  Twiller  and  his  council,  by 
dispatches  from  Fort  Aurania;  at  each  new  report  the 
governor  and  his  councillors  looked  at  each  other, 
raised  their  eyebrows,  gave  an  extra  puff  or  two  of 
smoke,  and  then  relapsed  into  their  usual  tranquillity. 

At  length  tidings  came  that  the  patroon  of  Rensel- 
laerwick  had  extended  his  usurpations  along  the  river, 
beyond  the  limits  granted  him  by  their  High  Mighti- 
nesses; and  that  he  had  even  seized  upon  a  rocky  island 
in  the  Hudson,  commonly  known  by  the  name  of  Beam 
or  Bear's  Island,  where  he  was  erecting  a  fortress,  to  be 
called  by  the  lordly  name  of  Rensellaerstein. 

Wouter  Van  Twiller  was  roused  by  this  intelligence. 
After  consulting  with  his  burgomasters,  he  dispatched 
a  letter  to  the  patroon  of  Rensellaerwick,  demanding 
by  what  right  he  had  seized  upon  this  island,  which  lay 
beyond  the  bounds  of  his  patroonship.  The  answer  of 
Killian  Van  Rensellaer  was  in  his  own  lordly  style. 
'*^y  wapen  rechtP^  that  is  to  say,  by  the  right  of  arms, 
or,  in  common  parlance,  by  club-law.  This  answer 
plunged  the  worthy  Wouter  into  one  of  the  deepest 
doubts  he  encountered  in  the  whole  course  of  his  ad- 
ministration, but  while  he  doubted,  the  lordly  Killian 
went  on  to  complete  his  sturdy  little  castellum  of  Ren- 
sellaerstein. This  done,  he  garrisoned  it  with  a  number 
of  his  tenants  from  the  Helderberg,  a  mountain  region, 
famous  for  the  hardest  heads  and  hardest  fists  in  the 
province.  Nicholas  Koorn,  his  faithful  squire,  accus- 
tomed to  strut  at  his  heels,  wear  his  cast-oif  clothes, 
and  imitate  his  lofty  bearing,  was  established  in  this 


6o  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

post  as  wacht-meester.  His  duty  it  was  to  keep  an  eye 
on  the  river,  and  obhge  every  vessel  that  passed,  unless 
on  the  service  of  their  High  Mightinesses,  the  Lords 
States  General  of  Holland,  to  strike  its  flag,  lower  its 
peak,  and  pay  toll  to  the  lord  of  Rensellaerstein. 

Many  were  the  complaints  rendered  in  to  Wouter 
Van  Twiller  by  the  skippers  of  the  Hudson  of  these 
wrongs  inflicted  on  them  by  the  little  wart  of  a  castle; 
all  which  tended  marvellously  to  increase  his  doubts 
and  perplexities,  insomuch  that  when  William  the  Testy 
succeeded  him  in  office,  he  found  whole  bundles  of  state- 
ments of  these  offences  filed  away  in  the  archives  of 
government,  with  the  dubious  superscription  "to  be 
considered."  William  the  Testy  was  not  a  man  to  take 
things  so  patiently.  He  wrote  sharp  remonstrances  to 
Killian  Van  Rensellaer,  representing  his  assumption  of 
sovereign  authority  on  the  river  as  equal  to  the  out- 
rages of  the  Robber  Counts  of  Germany,  from  their 
castles  on  the  Rhine.  His  remonstrances  were  treated 
with  silent  contempt,  and  thus  a  sore  place,  or,  in 
Hibernian  phrase,  a  raw,  was  established  in  the  irritable 
soul  of  the  little  governor,  insomuch  that  he  winced  at 
the  very  name  of  Rensellaerstein. 

Now  it  came  to  pass,  that  on  a  fine  sunny  day  the 
Company's  yacht,  the  Half  Moon,  having  been  on  one 
of  its  stated  visits  to  Fort  Aurania,  was  quietly  tiding 
it  down  the  Hudson;  the  commander,  Govert  Locker- 
man,  a  veteran  Dutch  skipper  of  few  words  but  great 
bottom,  was  seated  on  the  high  poop,  quietly  smoking 
his  pipe,  under  the  shadow  of  the  proud  flag  of  Orange 
when,   on    arriving   abreast  of   Beam    Island,    he   was 


Taapg^pr  iii^irp  iiiiiiiniiii 


c>c 


E^ 


The  Chronicle  of  Beam  Island  6i 

saluted  by  a  stentorian  voice  from  the  shore,  "Lower 
thy  flag,  and  be  d — d  to  thee!" 

Govert  Lockerman,  without  taking  his  pipe  out  of 
his  mouth,  turned  up  his  eye  from  under  his  broad- 
brimmed  hat  to  see  who  hailed  him  thus  discourteously. 
There,  on  the  ramparts  of  the  fort,  stood  Nicholas 
Koorn,  armed  to  the  teeth,  flourishing  a  brass-hilted 
sword,  while  a  steeple-crowned  hat  and  cock's  tail- 
feather,  formerly  worn  by  Killian  Van  Rensellaer  him- 
self, gave  an  inexpressible  loftiness  to  his  demeanor. 

Govert  Lockerman  eyed  the  warrior  from  top  to  toe, 
but  was  not  to  be  dismayed.  Taking  the  pipe  slowly 
out  of  his  mouth,  "To  whom  should  I  lower  my  flag.?" 
demanded  he. 

"To  the  high  and  mighty  Killian  Van  Rensellaer, 
the  lord  of  Rensellaerstein!"  was  the  reply. 

"I  lower  it  to  none  but  the  Prince  of  Orange,  and  my 
masters,  the  Lords  States  General."  So  saying,  he 
resumed  his  pipe,  and  smoked  with  an  air  of  dogged 
determination. 

Bang!  went  a  gun  from  the  fortress;  the  ball  cut  both 
sail  and  rigging.  Govert  Lockerman  said  nothing,  but 
smoked  the  more  doggedly. 

Bang!  went  another  gun;  the  shot  whistling  close 
astern. 

"Fire,  and  be  d — d,"  cried  Govert  Lockerman,  cram- 
ming a  new  charge  of  tobacco  into  his  pipe,  and  smok- 
ing with  still  increasing  vehemence. 

Bang!  went  a  third  gun.  The  shot  passed  over  his 
head,  tearing  a  hole  in  the  "princely  flag  of  Orange." 

This  was  the  hardest  trial  of  all  for  the  pride  and 


62  Stones  of  the  Hudson 

patience  of  Govert  Lockerman;  he  maintained  a  stub- 
born though  swelHng  silence,  but  his  smothered  rage 
might  be  perceived  by  the  short  vehement  puffs  of 
smoke  emitted  from  his  pipe,  by  which  he  might  be 
tracked  for  miles,  as  he  slowly  floated  out  of  shot  and 
out  of  sight  of  Beam  Island.  In  fact  he  never  gave  vent 
to  his  passion  until  he  got  fairly  among  the  Highlands 
of  the  Hudson;  when  he  let  fly  whole  volleys  of  Dutch 
oaths,  which  are  said  to  linger  to  this  very  day  among 
the  echoes  of  the  Dunderberg,  and  to  give  particular 
effect  to  the  thunderstorms  in  that  neighborhood. 

William  the  Testy  was  shut  up  in  his  rural  retreat  of 
Dog's  Misery,  planning  an  expedition  against  the 
marauding  people  of  Merryland,  when  Govert  Locker- 
man burst  in  upon  him,  bearing  in  his  hand  the  tattered 
flag  of  Orange.  I  will  not  pretend  to  describe  the  pas- 
sion of  the  little  man  when  he  heard  of  the  outrage  of 
Rensellaerstein.  Suffice  it  to  say,  in  the  first  transports 
of  his  fury,  he  turned  Dog's  Misery  topsy-turvy; 
kicked  every  cur  out  of  doors,  and  threw  the  cats  out 
of  the  window;  after  which,  his  spleen  being  in  some 
measure  relieved,  he  went  into  a  council  of  war  with 
Govert  Lockerman,  the  skipper,  assisted  by  Antony 
Van  Corlear,  the  trumpeter. 

The  eyes  of  all  New  Amsterdam  were  now  turned  to 
see  what  would  be  the  end  of  this  direful  feud  between 
William  the  Testy  and  the  patroon  of  Rensellaerwick; 
and  some,  observing  the  consultations  of  the  governor 
with  the  skipper  and  the  trumpeter,  predicted  warlike 
measures  by  sea  and  land.  The  wrath  of  William  Kicft, 
however,  though  quick  to  rise,  was  quick  to  evaporate. 


The  Chronicle  of  Beam  Island  63 

He  was  a  perfect  brush-heap  in  a  blaze,  snapping  and 
crackling  for  a  time,  and  then  ending  in  smoke.  Like 
many  other  valiant  potentates,  his  first  thoughts  were 
all  for  war,  his  sober  second  thoughts  for  diplomacy. 

Accordingly,  Govert  Lockerman  was  once  more  dis- 
patched up  the  river  in  the  Company's  yacht,  the  Goed 
Hoop,  bearing  Antony  the  Trumpeter  as  ambassador, 
to  treat  with  the  belligerent  powers  of  Rensellaerstein. 
In  the  fulness  of  time  the  yacht  arrived  before  Beam 
Island,  and  Antony  the  Trumpeter,  mounting  the  poop, 
sounded  a  parley  to  the  fortress.  In  a  little  while,  the 
steeple-crowned  hat  of  Nicholas  Koorn,  the  wacht- 
meester,  rose  above  the  battlements,  followed  by  his 
iron  visage,  and  ultimately  by  his  whole  person,  armed, 
as  before,  to  the  very  teeth;  while  one  by  one  a  whole 
row  of  Helderbergers  reared  their  round  burly  heads 
above  the  wall,  and  beside  each  pumpkin-head  peered 
the  end  of  a  rusty  musket.  Nothing  daunted  by  this 
formidable  array,  Antony  Van  Corlear  drew  forth  and 
read  with  audible  voice  a  missive  from  William  the 
Testy,  protesting  against  the  usurpation  of  Beam 
Island,  and  ordering  the  garrison  to  quit  the  premises, 
bag  and  baggage,  on  pain  of  the  vengeance  of  the  po- 
tentate of  the  Manhattoes. 

In  reply  the  wacht-meester  applied  the  thumb  of  his 
right  hand  to  the  end  of  his  nose,  and  the  thumb  of  the 
left  hand  to  the  little  finger  of  the  right,  and  spreading 
each  hand  like  a  fan,  made  an  aerial  flourish  with  his 
fingers.  Antony  Van  Corlear  was  sorely  perplexed  to 
understand  this  sign,  which  seemed  to  him  something 
mysterious   and   masonic.     Not  liking   to   betray   his 


64  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

ignorance,  he  again  read  with  a  loud  voice  the  missive 
of  William  the  Testy,  and  again  Nicholas  Koorn  applied 
the  thumb  of  his  right  hand  to  the  end  of  his  nose,  and 
the  thumb  of  his  left  hand  to  the  little  finger  of  the 
right,  and  repeated  this  kind  of  nasal  weathercock. 
Antony  Van  Corlear  now  persuaded  himself  that  this 
was  some  short-hand  sign  or  symbol,  current  in  di- 
plomacy, which,  though  unintelligible  to  a  new  diplomat 
like  himself,  would  speak  volumes  to  the  experienced 
intellect  of  William  the  Testy;  considering  his  embassy 
therefore  at  an  end,  he  sounded  his  trumpet  with  great 
complacency,  and  set  sail  on  his  return  down  the  river, 
every  now  and  then  practising  this  mysterious  sign  of 
the  wacht-meester,  to  keep  it  accurately  in  mind. 

Arrived  at  New  Amsterdam,  he  made  a  faithful 
report  of  his  embassy  to  the  governor,  accompanied  by 
a  manual  exhibition  of  the  response  of  Nicholas  Koorn. 
The  governor  was  equally  perplexed  with  his  ambassa- 
dor. He  was  deeply  versed  in  the  mysteries  of  free- 
masonry; but  they  threw  no  light  on  the  matter.  He 
knew  every  variety  of  windmill  and  weathercock,  but 
but  was  not  a  whit  the  wiser,  as  to  the  aerial  sign  in 
question.  He  had  even  dabbled  in  Egyptian  hiero- 
glyphics, and  the  mystic  symbols  of  the  obelisks,  but 
none  furnished  a  key  to  the  reply  of  Nicholas  Koorn.  He 
called  a  meeting  of  his  council.  Antony  Van  Corlear 
stood  forth  in  the  midst,  and  putting  the  thumb  of  his 
right  hand  to  his  nose,  and  the  thumb  of  his  left  hand 
to  the  little  finger  of  the  right,  he  gave  a  faithful  fac- 
simile of  the  portentous  sign.  Having  a  nose  of  un- 
usual dimensions,  it  was  as  if  the  reply  had  been  put 


The  Chronicle  of  Beam  Island  65 

in  capitals,  but  all  in  vain;  the  worthy  burgomasters 
were  equally  perplexed  with  the  governor.  Each  one 
put  his  thumb  to  the  end  of  his  nose,  spread  his  fingers 
like  a  fan,  imitated  the  motion  of  Antony  Van  Corlear, 
and  then  smoked  on  in  dubious  silence.  Several  times 
was  Antony  obliged  to  stand  forth  like  a  fugleman,  and 
repeat  the  sign,  and  each  time  a  circle  of  nasal  weather- 
cocks might  be  seen  in  the  council  chamber. 

Perplexed  in  the  extreme,  William  the  Testy  sent 
for  all  the  soothsayers,  and  fortunetellers,  and  wise 
men  of  the  Manhattoes,  but  none  could  interpret  the 
mysterious  reply  of  Nicholas  Koorn.  The  council 
broke  up  in  sore  perplexity.  The  matter  got  abroad; 
Antony  Van  Corlear  was  stopped  at  every  corner  to 
repeat  the  signal  to  a  knot  of  anxious  newsmongers, 
each  of  whom  departed  with  his  thumb  to  his  nose,  and 
his  fingers  in  the  air,  to  carry  the  story  home  to  his 
family.  For  several  days  all  business  was  neglected  in 
New  Amsterdam;  nothing  was  talked  of  but  the  diplo- 
matic mission  of  Antony  the  Trumpeter,  nothing  was 
to  be  seen  but  knots  of  politicians  with  their  thumbs 
to  their  noses.  In  the  meantime  the  fierce  feud  between 
William  the  Testy  and  Killian  Van  Rensellaer,  which 
at  first  had  menaced  deadly  warfare,  gradually  cooled 
ofi",  like  many  other  war  questions,  in  the  prolonged 
delays  of  diplomacy. 

Still  to  this  early  aifair  of  Rensellaerstein  may  be 
traced  the  remote  origin  of  those  windy  wars  in  modern 
days  which  rage  in  the  bowels  of  the  Helderberg,  and 
have  well  nigh  shaken  the  great  patroonship  of  the  Van 
Rensellaers  to  its  foundation;    for  we  are  told  that  the 


66  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

bully  boys  of  the  Helderberg,  who  served  under  Nicho- 
las Koorn,  the  wacht-meester,  carried  back  to  their 
mountains  the  hieroglyphic  sign  which  had  so  sorely 
puzzled  Antony  Van  Corlear  and  the  sages  of  the  Man- 
hattoes;  so  that  to  the  present  day  the  thumb  to  the 
nose  and  the  fingers  in  the  air  is  apt  to  be  the  reply  of 
the  Helderbergers  whenever  called  upon  for  long  arrears 
of  rent. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW 


TN  the  bosom  of  one  of  those  spacious  coves  which 
indent  the  eastern  shore  of  the  Hudson,  at  that 
broad  expansion  of  the  river  denominated  by  the  an- 
cient Dutch  navigators  the  Tappan  Zee,  and  where 
they  always  prudently  shortened  sail,  and  implored 
the  protection  of  St.  Nicholas  when  they  crossed,  there 
lies  a  small  market-town  or  rural  port,  which,  by  some, 
is  called  Greensburgh,  but  which  is  more  generally  and 
properly  known  by  the  name  of  Tarry  Town.  This 
name  was  given,  we  are  told,  in  former  days,  by  the 
good  housewives  of  the  adjacent  country,  from  the 
inveterate  propensity  of  their  husbands  to  linger  about 
the  village  tavern  on  market  days.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
I  do  not  vouch  for  the  fact,  but  merely  advert  to  it  for 
the  sake  of  being  precise  and  authentic.  Not  far  from 
this  village,  perhaps  about  two  miles,  there  Is  a  little 
valley,  or  rather  lap  of  land,  among  high  hills,  which  is 
one  of  the  quietest  places  in  the  whole  world.  A  small 
brook  glides  through  it,  with  just  murmur  enough  to 
lull  one  to  repose;  and  the  occasional  whistle  of  a  quail, 
or  tapping  of  a  woodpecker,  is  almost  the  only  sound 
that  ever  breaks  in  upon  the  uniform  tranquillity. 

I  recollect  that,  when  a  stripling,  my  first  exploit  in 
squirrel-shooting  was  in  a  grove  of  tall  walnut  trees 

67 


68  Stones  of  the  Hudson 

that  shades  one  side  of  the  valley.  I  had  wandered 
into  it  at  noontime,  when  all  nature  is  peculiarly  quiet, 
and  was  startled  by  the  roar  of  my  own  gun,  as  it  broke 
the  Sabbath  stillness  around,  and  was  prolonged  and 
reverberated  by  the  angry  echoes.  If  ever  I  should 
wish  for  a  retreat  whither  I  might  steal  from  the  world 
and  its  distractions,  and  dream  quietly  away  the  rem- 
nant of  a  troubled  life,  I  know  of  none  more  promising 
than  this  little  valley. 

From  the  listless  repose  of  the  place,  and  the  peculiar 
character  of  its  inhabitants,  who  are  descendants  from 
the  original  Dutch  settlers,  this  sequestered  glen  has 
long  been  known  by  the  name  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  and 
its  rustic  lads  are  called  the  Sleepy  Hollow  Boys  through- 
out all  the  neighboring  country.  A  drowsy,  dreamy 
influence  seems  to  hang  over  the  land,  and  to  pervade 
the  very  atmosphere.  Some  say  that  the  place  was 
bewitched  by  a  high  German  doctor,  during  the  early 
days  of  the  settlement;  others,  that  an  old  Indian  chief, 
the  prophet  or  wizard  of  his  tribe,  held  his  powwows 
there  before  the  country  was  discovered  by  Master 
Hendrick  Hudson.  Certain  it  is,  the  place  still  con- 
tinues under  the  sway  of  some  witching  power,  that 
holds  a  spell  over  the  minds  of  the  good  people,  causing 
them  to  walk  in  a  continual  reverie.  They  are  given 
to  all  kinds  of  marvellous  beliefs;  are  subject  to  trances 
and  visions;  and  frequently  see  strange  sights,  and 
hear  music  and  voices  in  the  air.  The  whole  neighbor- 
hood abounds  with  local  tales,  haunted  spots,  and  twi- 
light superstitions;  stars  shoot  and  meteors  glare 
oftener  across  the  valley  than  in  any  other  part  of  the 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  69 

country,  and  the  nightmare  with  her  whole  nine  fold, 
seems  to  make  it  the  favorite  scene  of  her  gambols. 

The  dominant  spirit,  however,  that  haunts  this  en- 
chanted region,  and  seems  to  be  commander  in  chief 
of  all  the  powers  of  the  air,  is  the  apparition  of  a  figure 
on  horseback,  without  a  head.  It  is  said  by  some  to  be 
the  ghost  of  a  Hessian  trooper,  whose  head  had  been 
carried  away  by  a  cannon  ball,  in  some  nameless  battle 
during  the  Revolutionary  War,  and  who  is  ever  and  anon 
seen  by  the  country  folk,  hurrying  along  in  the  gloom 
of  night,  as  if  on  the  wings  of  the  wind.  His  haunts  are 
not  confined  to  the  valley,  but  extend  at  times  to  the 
adjacent  roads,  and  especially  to  the  vicinity  of  a  church 
at  no  great  distance.  Indeed,  certain  of  the  most 
authentic  historians  of  those  parts,  who  have  been 
careful  in  collecting  and  collating  the  floating  facts  con- 
cerning this  spectre,  allege  that  the  body  of  the  trooper 
having  been  buried  in  the  churchyard,  the  ghost  rides 
forth  to  the  scene  of  battle  in  nightly  quest  of  his  head; 
and  that  the  rushing  speed  with  which  he  sometimes 
passes  along  the  Hollow,  like  a  midnight  blast,  is  owing 
to  his  being  belated,  and  in  a  hurry  to  get  back  to  the 
churchyard  before  daybreak. 

Such  is  the  general  purport  of  this  legendary  super- 
stition, which  has  furnished  materials  for  many  a  wild 
story  in  that  region  of  shadows,  and  the  spectre  is 
known  at  all  the  country  firesides  by  the  name  of  the 
Headless  Horseman  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  visionary  propensity  I  have 
mentioned  is  not  confined  to  the  native  inhabitants  of 
the  valley,  but  is  unconsciously  imbibed  by  every  one 


70  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

who  resides  there  for  a  time.  However  wide  awake 
they  may  have  been  before  they  entered  that  sleepy 
region,  they  are  sure,  in  a  little  time,  to  inhale  the  witch- 
ing influence  of  the  air,  and  begin  to  grow  imaginative 
— to  dream  dreams,  and  see  apparitions. 

I  mention  this  peaceful  spot  with  all  possible  laud; 
for  it  is  in  such  little  retired  Dutch  valleys,  found  here 
and  there,  embosomed  in  the  great  state  of  New  York, 
that  population,  manners,  and  customs  remain  fixed, 
while  the  great  torrent  of  migration  and  improvement, 
which  is  making  such  incessant  changes  in  other  parts 
of  this  restless  country,  sweeps  by  them  unobserved. 
They  are  like  those  little  nooks  of  still  water  which 
border  a  rapid  stream;  where  we  may  see  the  straw  and 
bubble  riding  quietly  at  anchor,  or  slowly  revolving  in 
their  mimic  harbor,  undisturbed  by  the  rush  of  the 
passing  current.  Though  many  years  have  elapsed 
since  I  trod  the  drowsy  shades  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  yet 
I  question  whether  I  should  not  still  find  the  same 
trees  and  the  same  families  vegetating  in  its  sheltered 
bosom. 

In  this  by-place  of  nature,  there  abode,  in  a  remote 
period  of  American  history,  that  is  to  say,  some  thirty 
years  since,  a  worthy  wight,  of  the  name  of  Ichabod 
Crane,  who  sojourned,  or,  as  he  expressed  it,  "tarried," 
in  Sleepy  Hollow,  for  the  purpose  of  instructing  the 
children  of  the  vicinity.  He  was  a  native  of  Connecti- 
cut, a  state  which  supplies  the  Union  with  pioneers  for 
the  mind  as  well  as  for  the  forest,  and  sends  forth 
yearly  its  legions  of  frontier  woodmen  and  country 
schoolmasters.    The  cognomen  of  Crane  was  not  inap- 


The  bridge  at  Sleepy  Hollow 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  71 

plicable  to  his  person.  He  was  tall,  but  exceedingly 
lank,  with  narrow  shoulders,  long  arms  and  legs,  hands 
that  dangled  a  mile  out  of  his  sleeves,  feet  that  might 
have  served  for  shovels,  and  his  whole  frame  most 
loosely  hung  together.  His  head  was  small,  and  flat 
at  the  top,  with  huge  ears,  large  green  glassy  eyes,  and 
a  long  snipe  nose,  so  that  it  looked  like  a  weathercock, 
perched  upon  his  spindle  neck  to  tell  which  way  the 
wind  blew.  To  see  him  striding  along  the  profile  of  a  hill 
on  a  windy  day,  with  his  clothes  bagging  and  fluttering 
about  him,  one  might  have  mistaken  him  for  the  genius 
of  famine  descending  upon  the  earth,  or  some  scare- 
crow eloped  from  a  cornfield. 

His  schoolhouse  was  a  low  building  of  one  large 
room,  rudely  constructed  of  logs,  the  windows  partly 
glazed  and  partly  patched  with  leaves  of  old  copybooks. 
It  was  most  ingeniously  secured  at  vacant  hours,  by  a 
withe  twisted  in  the  handle  of  the  door,  and  stakes  set 
against  the  window  shutters,  so  that,  though  a  thief 
might  get  in  with  perfect  ease,  he  would  find  some 
embarrassment  in  getting  out;  an  idea  most  probably 
borrowed  by  the  architect,  Yost  Van  Houten,  from  the 
mystery  of  an  eel-pot.  The  schoolhouse  stood  in  a 
rather  lonely  but  pleasant  situation,  just  at  the  foot  of 
a  woody  hill,  with  a  brook  running  close  by,  and  a 
formidable  birch  tree  growing  at  one  end  of  it.  From 
hence  the  low  murmur  of  his  pupils'  voices,  conning 
over  their  lessons,  might  be  heard  in  a  drowsy  summer's 
day,  like  the  hum  of  a  beehive,  interrupted  now  and 
then  by  the  authoritative  voice  of  the  master,  in  the 
tone  of  menace  or  command,  or,  peradventure,  by  the 


72  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

appalling  sound  of  the  birch,  as  he  urged  some  tardy 
loiterer  along  the  flowery  path  of  knowledge.  Truth 
to  say,  he  was  a  conscientious  man,  and  ever  bore  in 
mind  the  golden  maxim,  "Spare  the  rod  and  spoil  the 
child." — Ichabod  Crane's  scholars  certainly  were  not 
spoiled. 

I  would  not  have  it  imagined,  however,  that  he  was 
one  of  those  cruel  potentates  of  the  school,  who  joy  in 
the  smart  of  their  subjects;  on  the  contrary,  he  admin- 
istered justice  with  discrimination  rather  than  severity, 
taking  the  burden  off  the  backs  of  the  weak,  and  laying 
it  on  those  of  the  strong.  Your  mere  puny  stripling, 
that  winced  at  the  least  flourish  of  the  rod,  was  passed 
by  with  indulgence,  but  the  claims  of  justice  were  satis- 
fied by  inflicting  a  double  portion  on  some  little,  tough, 
wrong-headed,  broad-skirted  Dutch  urchin,  who  sulked, 
and  swelled,  and  grew  dogged  and  sullen  beneath  the 
birch.  All  this  he  called  "doing  his  duty  by  their 
parents,"  and  he  never  inflicted  a  chastisement  without 
following  it  by  the  assurance,  so  consolatory  to  the 
smarting  urchin,  that  "  he  would  remember  it  and  thank 
him  for  it  the  longest  day  he  had  to  live." 

When  school  hours  were  over,  he  was  even  the  com- 
panion and  playmate  of  the  larger  boys,  and  on  holiday 
afternoons  would  convoy  some  of  the  smaller  ones  home, 
who  happened  to  have  pretty  sisters,  or  good  house- 
wives for  mothers,  noted  for  the  comforts  of  the  cup- 
board. Indeed,  it  behoved  him  to  keep  on  good  terms 
with  his  pupils.  The  revenue  arising  from  his  school  was 
small,  and  would  have  been  scarcely  suflicicnt  to  furnish 
him  witli  daily  bread,  for  he  was  a  huge  feeder,  and 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  73 

though  lank,  had  the  dilating  powers  of  an  anaconda; 
but  to  help  out  his  maintenance,  he  was,  according  to 
country  custom  in  those  parts,  boarded  and  lodged  at 
the  houses  of  the  farmers,  whose  children  he  instructed. 
With  these  he  lived  successively  a  week  at  a  time,  thus 
going  the  rounds  of  the  neighborhood,  with  all  his 
worldly  effects  tied  up  in  a  cotton  hande'Pchief. 

That  all  this  might  not  be  too  onerous  on  the  purses 
of  his  rustic  patrons,  who  are  apt  to  consider  the  costs 
of  schooling  a  grievous  burden,  and  schoolmasters  as 
mere  drones,  he  had  various  ways  of  rendering  himself 
both  useful  and  agreeable.  He  assisted  the  farmers 
occasionally  in  the  lighter  labors  of  their  farms,  helped 
to  make  hay,  mended  the  fences,  took  the  horses  to 
water,  drove  the  cows  from  pasture,  and  cut  wood  for 
the  winter  fire.  He  laid  aside,  too,  all  the  dominant 
dignity  and  absolute  sway  with  which  he  lorded  it  in 
his  little  empire,  the  school,  and  became  wonderfully 
gentle  and  ingratiating.  He  found  favor  in  the  eyes  of 
the  mothers,  by  petting  the  children,  particularly  the 
youngest,  and  like  the  lion  bold,  which  whilom  so  mag- 
nanimously the  lamb  did  hold,  he  would  sit  with  a  child 
on  one  knee,  and  rock  a  cradle  with  his  foot  for  whole 
hours  together. 

In  addition  to  his  other  vocations,  he  was  the  singing 
master  of  the  neighborhood,  and  picked  up  many  bright 
shillings  by  instructing  the  young  folks  in  psalmody. 
It  was  a  matter  of  no  little  vanity  to  him,  on  Sundays, 
to  take  his  station  in  front  of  the  church  gallery  with 
a  band  of  chosen  singers;  where,  in  his  own  mind,  he 
completely  carried  away  the  palm  from  the  parson. 


74  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

Certain  it  is,  his  voice  resounded  far  above  all  the  rest  of 
the  congregation;  and  there  are  peculiar  quavers  still  to 
be  heard  in  that  church,  and  which  may  even  be  heard 
half  a  mile  off,  quite  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  mill- 
pond,  on  a  still  Sunday  morning,  which  are  said  to  be 
legitimately  descended  from  the  nose  of  Ichabod  Crane. 
Thus,  by  divers  little  makeshifts,  in  that  ingenious 
way  which  is  commonly  denominated  *'by  hook  and 
by  crook,"  the  worthy  pedagogue  got  on  tolerably 
enough,  and  was  thought,  by  all  who  understood  noth- 
ing of  the  labor  of  headwork,  to  have  a  wonderfully 
easy  life  of  it. 

The  schoolmaster  is.  generally  a  man  of  some  impor- 
tance in  the  female  circle  of  a  rural  neighborhood;  be- 
ing considered  a  kind  of  idle  gentleman-like  personage, 
of  vastly  superior  taste  and  accomplishments  to  the 
rough  country  swains,  and,  indeed,  inferior  in  learning 
only  to  the  parson.  His  appearance,  therefore,  is  apt 
to  occasion  some  little  stir  at  the  tea-table  of  a  farm- 
house, and  the  addition  of  a  supernumerary  dish  of 
cakes,  or  sweetmeats,  or,  peradventure,  the  parade  of  a 
silver  teapot.  Our  man  of  letters,  therefore,  was  pecul- 
iarly happy  in  the  smiles  of  all  the  country  damsels. 
How  he  would  figure  among  them  in  the  churchyard 
between  services  on  Sundays,  gathering  grapes  for  them 
from  the  wild  vines  that  overrun  the  surrounding  trees; 
reciting  for  their  amusement  all  the  epitaphs  on  the 
tombstones,  or  sauntering,  with  a  whole  bevy  of  them, 
along  the  banks  of  the  adjacent  mill  pond;  while  the 
more  bashful  country  bumpkins  hung  sheepishly  back, 
envying  his  superior  elegance  and  address. 


I 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  75 

From  his  half  itinerant  life,  also,  he  was  a  kind  of 
travelling  gazette,  carrying  the  whole  budget  of  local 
gossip  from  house  to  house,  so  that  his  appearance  was 
always  greeted  with  satisfaction.  He  was,  moreover, 
esteemed  by  the  women  as  a  man  of  great  erudition,  for 
he  had  read  several  books  quite  through,  and  was  a 
perfect  master  of  Cotton  Mather's  History  of  New 
England  Witchcraft,  in  which,  by  the  way,  he  most 
firmly  and  potently  believed. 

He  was,  in  fact,  an  odd  mixture  of  small  shrewdness 
and  simple  credulity.  His  appetite  for  the  marvellous, 
and  his  powers  of  digesting  it,  were  equally  extra- 
ordinary; and  both  had  been  increased  by  his  residence 
in  this  spellbound  region.  No  tale  was  too  gross  or 
monstrous  for  his  capacious  swallow.  It  was  often  his 
delight,  after  his  school  was  dismissed  in  the  afternoon, 
to  stretch  himself  on  the  rich  bed  of  clover,  bordering 
the  little  brook  that  whimpered  by  his  schoolhouse, 
and  there  con  over  old  Mather's  direful  tales,  until  the 
gathering  dusk  of  the  evening  made  the  printed  page  a 
mere  mist  before  his  eyes.  Then,  as  he  wended  his  way 
by  swamp,  and  stream,  and  awful  woodland,  to  the 
farmhouse  where  he  happened  to  be  quartered,  every 
sound  of  nature,  at  that  witching  hour,  fluttered  his 
excited  imagination;  the  moan  of  the  whippoorwill* 
from  the  hillside,  the  boding  cry  of  the  tree  toad,  that 
harbinger  of  storm,  the  dreary  hooting  of  the  screech- 
owl,   or   the   sudden   rustling  in   the   thicket  of  birds 

*The  whippoorwill  is  a  bird  which  is  only  heard  at  night.  It 
receives  its  name  from  its  note,  which  is  thought  to  resemble  those 
words. 


76  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

frightened  from  their  roost.  The  fireflies,  too,  which 
sparkled  most  vividly  in  the  darkest  places,  now  and 
then  startled  him,  as  one  of  uncommon  brightness  would 
stream  across  his  path;  and  if,  by  chance,  a  huge  block- 
head of  a  beetle  came  winging  his  blundering  flight 
against  him,  the  poor  varlet  was  ready  to  give  up  the 
ghost,  with  the  idea  that  he  was  struck  with  a  witch's 
token.  His  only  resource  on  such  occasions,  either  to 
drown  thought,  or  drive  away  evil  spirits,  was  to  sing 
psalm  tunes,  and  the  good  people  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  as 
they  sat  by  their  doors  of  an  evening,  were  often  filled 
with  awe,  at  hearing  his  nasal  melody,  "in  linked  sweet- 
ness long  drawn  out,"  floating  from  the  distant  hill, 
or  along  the  dusky  road. 

Another  of  his  sources  of  fearful  pleasure  was,  to 
pass  long  winter  evenings  with  the  old  Dutch  wives,  as 
they  sat  spinning  by  the  fire,  with  a  row  of  apples  roast- 
ing and  spluttering  along  the  hearth,  and  listen  to  their 
marvellous  tales  of  ghosts,  and  goblins,  and  haunted 
fields,  and  haunted  brooks,  and  haunted  bridges,  and 
haunted  houses,  and  particularly  of  the  headless  horse- 
man, or  Galloping  Hessian  of  the  Hollow,  as  they  some- 
times called  him.  He  would  delight  them  equally  by 
his  anecdotes  of  witchcraft,  and  of  the  direful  omens 
and  portentous  sights  and  sounds  in  the  air,  which  pre- 
vailed in  the  earlier  times  of  Connecticut,  and  would 
frighten  them  wofully  with  speculations  upon  comets 
and  shooting  stars,  and  with  the  alarming  fact  that  the 
world  did  absolutely  turn  round,  and  that  they  were 
half  the  time  topsy-turvy. 

But  if  there  was  a  pleasure  in  all  this,  while  snugly 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  77 

cuddling  in  the  chimney  corner  of  a  chamber  that  was 
all  of  a  ruddy  glow  from  the  crackling  wood  fire,  and 
where,  of  course,  no  spectre  dared  to  show  its  face,  it 
was  dearly  purchased  by  the  terrors  of  his  subsequent 
walk  homewards.  What  fearful  shapes  and  shadows 
beset  his  path  amidst  the  dim  and  ghastly  glare  of  a 
snowy  night! — With  what  wistful  look  did  he  eye  every 
trembling  ray  of  light  streaming  across  the  waste  fields 
from  some  distant  window.  How  often  was  he  appalled 
by  some  shrub  covered  with  snow,  which,  like  a  sheeted 
spectre,  beset  his  very  path.  How  often  did  he  shrink 
with  curdling  awe  at  the  sound  of  his  own  steps  on  the 
frosty  crust  beneath  his  feet,  and  dread  to  look  over  his 
shoulder,  lest  he  should  behold  some  uncouth  being 
tramping  close  behind  him! — and  how  often  was  he 
thrown  into  complete  dismay  by  some  rushing  blast, 
howling  among  the  trees,  in  the  idea  that  it  was  the 
Galloping  Hessian  on  one  of  his  nightly  scourings. 

All  these,  however,  were  mere  terrors  of  the  night, 
phantoms  of  the  mind  that  walk  in  darkness;  and 
though  he  had  seen  many  spectres  in  his  time,  and  been 
more  than  once  beset  by  Satan  in  divers  shapes,  in  his 
lonely  perambulations,  yet  daylight  put  an  end  to  all 
these  evils,  and  he  would  have  passed  a  pleasant  life  of 
it,  in  despite  of  the  devil  and  all  his  works,  if  his  path 
had  not  been  crossed  by  a  being  that  causes  more  per- 
plexity to  mortal  man  than  ghosts,  goblins,  and  the 
whole  race  of  witches  put  together,  and  that  was — a 
woman. 

Among  the  musical  disciples  who  assembled,  one 
evening   in   each   week,   to   receive   his   instruction   in 


78 


Stories  of  the  Hudson 


psalmody,  was  Katrina  Van  Tassel,  the  daughter  and 
only  child  of  a  substantial  Dutch  farmer.  She  was  a 
blooming  lass  of  fresh  eighteen;  plump  as  a  partridge, 
ripe  and  melting  and  rosy-cheeked  as  one  of  her  father's 
peaches,  and  universally  famed,  not  merely  for  her 
beauty,  but  her  vast  expectations.  She  was  withal  a 
little  of  a  coquette,  as  might  be  perceived  even  in  her 
dress,  which  was  a  mixture  of  ancient  and  modern 
fashions,  as  most  suited  to  set  off  her  charms.  She  wore 
the  ornaments  of  pure  yellow  gold,  which  her  great- 
great-grandmother  had  brought  over  from  Saardam; 
the  tempting  stomacher  of  the  olden  time,  and  withal 
a  provokingly  short  petticoat,  to  display  the  prettiest 
foot  and  ankle  in  the  country  round. 

Ichabod  Crane  had  a  soft  and  foolish  heart  towards 
the  sex;  and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  so  tempt- 
ing a  morsel  soon  found  favor  in  his  eyes;  more  espe- 
cially after  he  had  visited  her  in  her  paternal  mansion. 
Old  Baltus  Van  Tassel  was  a  perfect  picture  of  a  thriv- 
ing, contented,  liberal-hearted  farmer.  He  seldom,  it 
is  true,  sent  either  his  eyes  or  his  thoughts  beyond  the 
boundaries  of  his  own  farm;  but  within  those  every- 
thing was  snug,  happy,  and  well-conditioned.  He  was 
satisfied  with  his  wealth,  but  not  proud  of  it,  and  piqued 
himself  upon  the  hearty  abundance,  rather  than  the 
style  in  which  he  lived.  His  stronghold  was  situated 
on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson,  in  one  of  those  green,  shel- 
tered, fertile  nooks,  in  which  the  Dutch  farmers  are  so 
fond  of  nestling.  A  great  elm  tree  spread  its  broad 
branches  over  it,  at  the  foot  of  which  bubbled  up  a 
spring  of  the  softest  and  sweetest  water,  in  a  little  well. 


ft 
The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  79 

formed  of  a  barrel;  and  then  stole  sparkling  away 
through  the  grass,  to  a  neighboring  brook,  that  bubbled 
along  among  alders  and  dwarf  willows.  Hard  by  the 
farmhouse  was  a  vast  barn,  that  might  have  served  for 
a  church;  every  window  and  crevice  of  which  seemed 
bursting  forth  with  the  treasures  of  the  farm;  the  flail 
was  busily  resounding  within  it  from  morning  to  night; 
swallows  and  martins  skimmed  twittering  about  the 
eaves,  and  rows  of  pigeons,  some  with  one  eye  turned 
up,  as  if  watching  the  weather,  some  with  their  heads 
under  their  wings,  or  burled  In  their  bosoms,  and  others 
swelling,  and  cooing,  and  bowing  about  their  dames, 
were  enjoying  the  sunshine  on  the  roof.  Sleek,  unwieldy 
porkers  were  grunting  In  the  repose  and  abundance  of 
their  pens,  whence  sallied  forth,  now  and  then,  troops 
of  sucking  pigs,  as  if  to  snuff  the  air.  A  stately  squadron 
of  snowy  geese  were  riding  in  an  adjoining  pond,  con- 
voying whole  fleets  of  ducks;  regiments  of  turkeys 
were  gobbling  through  the  farmyard,  and  guinea  fowls 
fretting  about  It,  like  Ill-tempered  housewives,  with 
their  peevish,  discontented  cry.  Before  the  barn  door 
strutted  the  gallant  cock,  that  pattern  of  a  husband,  a 
warrior,  and  a  fine  gentleman,  clapping  his  burnished 
wings,  and  crowing  In  the  pride  and  gladness  of  his 
heart — sometimes  tearing  up  the  earth  with  his  feet, 
and  then  generously  calling  his  ever-hungry  family  of 
wives  and  children  to  enjoy  the  rich  morsel  which  he 
had  discovered. 

The  pedagogue's  mouth  watered,  as  he  looked  upon 
this  sumptuous  promise  of  luxurious  winter  fare.  In 
his  devouring  mind's  eye,  he  pictured  to  himself  every 


8o  Stones  of  the  Hudson 

roasting-pig  running  about  with  a  pudding  in  his  belly, 
and  an  apple  in  his  mouth;  the  pigeons  were  snugly- 
put  to  bed  in  a  comfortable  pie,  and  tucked  in  with  a 
coverlet  of  crust;  the  geese  were  swimming  in  their  own 
gravy,  and  the  ducks  pairing  cosily  in  dishes,  like  snug 
married  couples,  with  a  decent  competency  of  onion 
sauce.  In  the  porkers  he  saw  carved  out  the  future 
sleek  side  of  bacon,  and  juicy  relishing  ham;  not  a 
turkey  but  he  beheld  daintily  trussed  up,  with  its  giz- 
zard under  its  wing,  and,  peradventure,  a  necklace  of 
savory  sausages,  and  even  bright  chanticleer  himself 
lay  sprawling  on  his  back,  in  a  side  dish,  with  uplifted 
claws,  as  if  craving  that  quarter  which  his  chivalrous 
spirit  disdained  to  ask  while  living. 

As  the  enraptured  Ichabod  fancied  all  this,  and  as 
he  rolled  his  great  green  eyes  over  the  fat  meadow  lands, 
the  rich  fields  of  wheat,  of  rye,  of  buckwheat,  and  Indian 
corn,  and  the  orchards  burdened  with  ruddy  fruit, 
which  surrounded  the  warm  tenement  of  Van  Tassel, 
his  heart  yearned  after  the  damsel  who  was  to  inherit 
these  domains,  and  his  imagination  expanded  with  the 
idea,  how  they  might  be  readily  turned  into  cash,  and 
the  money  invested  in  immense  tracts  of  wild  land  and 
shingle  palaces  in  the  wilderness.  Nay,  his  busy  fancy 
already  realized  his  hopes,  and  presented  to  him  the 
blooming  Katrina,  with  a  whole  family  of  children, 
mounted  on  the  top  of  a  wagon,  loaded  with  household 
trumpery,  with  pots  and  kettles  dangling  beneath;  and 
he  beheld  himself  bestriding  a  pacing  mare,  with  a  colt 
at  her  heels,  setting  out  for  Kentucky,  Tennessee,  or 
the  Lord  knows  where. 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  8i 

When  he  entered  the  house,  the  conquest  of  his  heart 
was  complete.  It  was  one  of  those  spacious  farmhouses, 
with  high  ridged,  but  lowly  sloping  roofs,  built  in  the 
style  handed  down  from  the  first  Dutch  settlers;  the 
low  projecting  eaves  forming  a  piazza  along  the 
front,  capable  of  being  closed  up  in  bad  weather.  Under 
this  were  hung  flails,  harness,  various  utensils  of  hus- 
bandry, and  nets  for  fishing  in  the  neighboring  river. 
Benches  were  built  along  the  sides  for  summer  use;  and 
a  great  spinning  wheel  at  one  end,  and  a  churn  at  the 
other,  showed  the  various  uses  to  which  this  important 
porch  might  be  devoted.  From  this  piazza  the  wonder- 
ing Ichabod  entered  the  hall,  which  formed  the  centre 
of  the  mansion,  and  the  place  of  usual  residence.  Here, 
rows  of  resplendent  pewter  ranged  on  a  long  dresser, 
dazzled  his  eyes.  In  one  corner  stood  a  huge  bag  of 
wool,  ready  to  be  spun;  in  another  a  quantity  of  linsey- 
woolsey  just  from  the  loom;  ears  of  Indian  corn,  and 
strings  of  dried  apples  and  peaches,  hung  in  gay  festoons 
along  the  walls,  mingled  with  the  gaud  of  red  peppers, 
and  a  door  left  ajar  gave  him  a  peep  into  the  best  parlor, 
where  the  claw-footed  chairs,  and  dark  mahogany 
tables,  shone  like  mirrors;  andirons,  with  their  accom- 
panying shovel  and  tongs,  glistened  from  their  covert 
of  asparagus  tops;  mock  oranges  and  conch-shells 
decorated  the  mantelpiece;  strings  of  various  colored 
birds'  eggs  were  suspended  above  it;  a  great  ostrich 
egg  was  hung  from  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  a  corner 
cupboard,  knowingly  left  open,  displayed  immense 
treasures  of  old  silver  and  well  mended  china. 

From  the  moment  Ichabod  laid  his  eyes  upon  these 


82  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

regions  of  delight,  the  peace  of  his  mind  was  at  an  end, 
and  his  only  study  was  how  to  gain  the  affections  of  the 
peerless  daughter  of  Van  Tassel.  In  this  enterprise, 
however,  he  had  more  real  difficulties  than  generally 
fell  to  the  lot  of  a  knight-errant  of  yore,  who  seldom 
had  anything  but  giants,  enchanters,  fiery  dragons,  and 
such  like  easily  conquered  adversaries  to  contend  with, 
and  had  to  make  his  way  merely  through  gates  of  iron 
and  brass,  and  walls  of  adamant,  to  the  castle  keep 
where  the  lady  of  his  heart  was  confined,  all  which  he 
achieved  as  easily  as  a  man  would  carve  his  way  to  the 
centre  of  a  Christmas  pie,  and  then  the  lady  gave  him 
her  hand,  as  a  matter  of  course.  Ichabod,  on  the  con- 
trary, had  to  win  his  way  to  the  heart  of  a  country 
coquette,  beset  with  a  labyrinth  of  whims  and  caprices, 
which  were  forever  presenting  new  difficulties  and  im- 
pediments; and  he  had  to  encounter  a  host  of  fearful 
adversaries  of  real  flesh  and  blood,  the  numerous  rustic 
admirers,  who  beset  every  portal  to  her  heart,  keeping 
a  watchful  and  angry  eye  upon  each  other,  but 
ready  to  fly  out  in  the  common  cause  against  any  new 
competitor. 

Among  these  the  most  formidable  was  a  burly,  roar- 
ing, roystering  blade,  of  the  name  of  xA-braham,  or, 
according  to  the  Dutch  abbreviation,  Brom  Van 
Brunt,  the  hero  of  the  country  round,  which  rang  with 
his  feats  of  strength  and  hardihood.  He  was  broad 
shouldered  and  double  jointed,  with  short  curly  black 
hair,  and  a  bluff,  but  not  unpleasant  countenance,  hav- 
ing a  mingled  air  of  fun  and  arrogance.  From  his 
Herculean  frame  and   great  powers  of  limb,   he  had 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  83 

received  the  nickname  of  Brom  Bones,  by  which  he 
was  universally  known.  He  was  famed  for  great  knowl- 
edge and  skill  in  horsemanship,  being  as  dexterous  on 
horseback  as  a  Tartar.  He  was  foremost  in  all  races 
and  cock  fights,  and,  with  the  ascendency  which  bodily 
strength  acquires  in  rustic  life,  was  the  umpire  in  all 
disputes,  setting  his  hat  on  one  side,  and  giving  his 
decisions  with  an  air  and  tone  admitting  of  no  gainsay 
or  appeal.  He  was  always  ready  for  either  a  fight  or  a 
frolic,  but  had  more  mischief  than  ill-will  in  his  com- 
position, and,  with  all  his  overbearing  roughness,  there 
was  a  strong  dash  of  waggish  good  humor  at  bottom. 
He  had  three  or  four  boon  companions,  who  regarded 
him  as  their  model,  and  at  the  head  of  whom  he  scoured 
the  country,  attending  every  scene  of  feud  or  merriment 
for  miles  round.  In  cold  weather,  he  was  distinguished 
by  a  fur  cap,  surmounted  with  a  flaunting  fox's  tail, 
and  when  the  folks  at  a  country  gathering  descried 
this  well-known  crest  at  a  distance,  whisking  about 
among  a  squad  of  hard  riders,  they  always  stood  by  for 
a  squall.  Sometimes  his  crew  would  be  heard  dashing 
along  past  the  farmhouses  at  midnight,  with  whoop  and 
halloo,  like  a  troop  of  Don  Cossacks,  and  the  old  dames, 
starlted  out  of  their  sleep,  would  listen  for  a  moment, 
till  the  hurry-scurry  had  clattered  by,  and  then  ex- 
claim, "Ay,  there  goes  Brom  Bones  and  his  gang!" 
The  neighbors  looked  upon  him  with  a  mixture  of  awe, 
admiration,  and  good  will,  and  when  any  madcap  prank 
or  rustic  brawl  occurred  in  the  vicinity,  always  shook 
their  heads,  and  warranted  Brom  Bones  was  at  the 
bottom  of  it. 


84  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

This  rantipole  hero  had  for  some  time  singled  out  the 
blooming  Katrina  for  the  object  of  his  uncouth  gal- 
lantries, and  though  his  amorous  toyings  were  some- 
thing like  the  gentle  caresses  and  endearments  of  a  bear, 
yet  it  was  whispered  that  she  did  not  altogether  dis- 
courage his  hopes.  Certain  it  is,  his  advances  were 
signals  for  rival  candidates  to  retire,  who  felt  no  in- 
clination to  cross  a  lion  in  his  amours;  insomuch,  that 
when  his  horse  was  seen  tied  to  Van  Tassel's  paling  on 
a  Sunday  night,  a  sure  sign  that  his  master  was  court- 
ing, or  as  it  is  termed,  "sparking,"  within,  all  other 
suitors  passed  by  in  despair,  and  carried  the  war  into 
other  quarters. 

Such  was  the  formidable  rival  with  whom  Ichabod 
Crane  had  to  contend,  and,  considering  all  things,  a 
stouter  man  than  he  would  have  shrunk  from  the  com- 
petition, and  a  wiser  man  would  have  despaired.  He 
had,  however,  a  happy  mixture  of  pliability  and  per- 
severance in  his  nature;  he  was  in  form  and  spirit  like 
a  supple-jack — yielding,  but  tough;  though  he  bent,  he 
never  broke,  and  though  he  bowed  beneath  the  slightest 
pressure,  yet  the  moment  it  was  away — jerk!  he  was 
as  erect,  and  carried  his  head  as  high  as  ever. 

To  have  taken  the  field  openly  against  his  rival  would 
have  been  madness,  for  he  was  not  a  man  to  be  thwarted 
in  his  amours,  any  more  than  that  stormy  lover, 
Achilles.  Ichabod,  therefore,  made  his  advances  in  a 
quiet  and  gently-insinuating  manner.  Under  cover  of 
his  character  of  singing  master,  he  made  frequent  visits 
at  the  farmhouse;  not  that  he  had  anything  to  appre- 
hend   from    the    meddlesome    interference   of   parents, 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  85 

which  is  so  often  a  stumbling-block  in  the  path  of  lovers. 
Bait  Van  Tassel  was  an  easy,  indulgent  soul;  he  loved 
his  daughter  better  even  than  his  pipe,  and,  like  a 
reasonable  man  and  an  excellent  father,  let  her  have 
her  way  in  everything.  His  notable  little  wife,  too, 
had  enough  to  do  to  attend  to  her  housekeeping  and 
manage  her  poultry,  for,  as  she  sagely  observed,  ducks 
and  geese  are  foolish  things,  and  must  be  looked  after, 
but  girls  can  take  care  of  themselves.  Thus  while  the 
busy  dame  bustled  about  the  house,  or  plied  her  spin- 
ning wheel  at  one  end  of  the  piazza,  honest  Bait  would 
sit  smoking  his  evening  pipe  at  the  other,  watching  the 
achievements  of  a  little  wooden  warrior,  who,  armed 
with  a  sword  in  each  hand,  was  most  valiantly  fighting 
the  wind  on  the  pinnacle  of  the  barn.  In  the  mean- 
time, Ichabod  would  carry  on  his  suit  with  the  daughter, 
by  the  side  of  the  spring,  under  the  great  elm,  or  saunter- 
ing along  in  the  twilight,  that  hour  so  favorable  to  the 
lover's  eloquence. 

I  profess  not  to  know  how  women's  hearts  are  wooed 
and  won.  To  me  they  have  always  been  matters  of 
riddle  and  admiration.  Some  seem  to  have  but  one 
vulnerable  point,  or  door  of  access,  while  others  have 
a  thousand  avenues,  and  may  be  captured  in  a  thousand 
different  ways.  It  is  a  great  triumph  of  skill  to  gain 
the  former,  but  a  still  greater  proof  of  generalship  to 
maintain  possession  of  the  latter,  for  a  man  must  battle 
for  his  fortress  at  every  door  and  window.  He  who  wins 
a  thousand  common  hearts  is  therefore  entitled  to  some 
renown,  but  he  who  keeps  undisputed  sway  over  the 
heart  of  a  coquette,  is  indeed  a  hero.    Certain  it  is,  this 


86  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

was  not  the  case  with  the  redoubtable  Brom  Bones, 
and  from  the  moment  Ichabod  Crane  made  his  ad- 
vances, the  interests  of  the  former  evidently  declined; 
his  horse  was  no  longer  seen  tied  to  the  palings  on  Sun- 
day nights,  and  a  deadly  feud  gradually  arose  between 
him  and  the  preceptor  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 

Brom,  who  had  a  degree  of  rough  chivalry  in  his 
nature,  would  fain  have  carried  matters  to  open  war- 
fare, and  have  settled  their  pretensions  to  the  lady 
according  to  the  mode  of  those  most  concise  and  simple 
reasoners,  the  knight-errants  of  yore — by  single  com- 
bat; but  Ichabod  was  too  conscious  of  the  superior 
might  of  his  adversary,  to  enter  the  lists  against  him; 
he  had  overheard  a  boast  of  Bones,  that  he  would 
"double  the  schoolmaster  up,  and  lay  him  on  a  shelf  of 
his  own  schoolhouse,"  and  he  was  too  wary  to  give 
him  an  opportunity.  There  was  something  extremely 
provoking  in  this  obstinately  pacific  system;  it  left 
Brom  no  alternative  but  to  draw  upon  the  funds  of  rustic 
waggery  in  his  disposition,  and  to  play  off  boorish 
practical  jokes  upon  his  rival.  Ichabod  became  the 
object  of  whimsical  persecution  to  Bones  and  his  gang 
of  rough  riders.  They  harried  his  hitherto  peaceful 
domains;  smoked  out  his  singing  school,  by  stopping 
up  the  chimney;  broke  Into  the  schoolhouse  at  night, 
in  spite  of  its  formidable  fastenings  of  withe  and  window 
stakes,  and  turned  everything  topsy-turvy,  so  that  the 
poor  schoolmaster  began  to  think  all  the  witches  in  the 
country  held  their  meetings  there.  But  what  was  still 
more  annoying,  Brom  took  all  opportunities  of  turning 
him  Into  ridicule  in  presence  of  his  mistress,  and  had  a 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  87 

scoundrel  dog,  whom  he  taught  to  whine  in  the  most 
ludicrous  manner,  and  introduced  as  a  rival  of  Ichabod's 
to  instruct  her  in  psalmody. 

In  this  way  matters  went  on  for  some  time,  without 
producing  any  material  effect  on  the  relative  situation 
of  the  contending  powers.  On  a  fine  autumnal  after- 
noon, Ichabod,  in  pensive  mood,  sat  enthroned  on  the 
lofty  stool  whence  he  usually  watched  all  the  concerns 
of  his  little  literary  realm.  In  his  hand  he  swayed  a 
ferule,  that  sceptre  of  despotic  power;  the  birch  of 
justice  reposed  on  three  nails,  behind  the  throne,  a 
constant  terror  to  evil  doers;  while  on  a  desk  before 
him  might  be  seen  sundry  contraband  articles  and  pro- 
hibited weapons,  detected  upon  the  persons  of  idle 
urchins,  such  as  half-munched  apples,  popguns,  whirli- 
gigs, fly-cages,  and  whole  legions  of  rampant  little  paper 
gamecocks.  Apparently,  there  had  been  some  appal- 
ling act  of  justice  recently  inflicted,  for  his  scholars  were 
all  busily  intent  upon  their  books,  or  slily  whispering 
behind  them,  with  one  eye  kept  upon  the  master,  and 
a  kind  of  buzzing  stillness  reigned  throughout  the 
schoolroom.  It  was  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  negro,  in  towcloth  jacket  and  trowsers,  a 
round  crowned  fragment  of  a  hat,  like  the  cap  of  Mer- 
cury, and  mounted  on  the  back  of  a  ragged,  wild,  half- 
broken  colt,  which  he  managed  with  a  rope,  by  way  of 
,  halter.  He  came  clattering  up  to  the  school  door  with 
an  invitation  to  Ichabod  to  attend  a  merrymaking,  or 
"quilting  frolic,"  to  be  held  that  evening  at  Mynheer 
Van  Tassel's,  and  having  delivered  his  message  with 
that   air  of  importance,   and   effort   at  fine  language, 


88  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

which  a  negro  is  apt  to  display  on  petty  embassies  of 
the  kind,  he  dashed  over  the  brook,  and  was  seen 
scampering  away  up  the  hollow,  full  of  the  importance 
and  hurry  of  his  mission. 

All  was  now  bustle  and  hubbub  in  the  late  quiet 
schoolroom.  The  scholars  were  hurried  through  their 
lessons,  without  stopping  at  trifles;  those  who  were 
nimble,  skipped  over  half  with  impunity,  and  those 
who  were  tardy,  had  a  smart  application  now  and  then 
in  the  rear,  to  quicken  their  speed,  or  help  them  over  a 
tall  word.  Books  were  flung  aside  without  being  put 
away  on  the  shelves,  inkstands  were  overturned,  benches 
thrown  down,  and  the  whole  school  was  turned  loose 
an  hour  before  the  usual  time,  bursting  forth  like  a 
legion  of  young  imps,  yelping  and  racketing  about  the 
green,  in  joy  at  their  early  emancipation. 

The  gallant  Ichabod  now  spent  at  least  an  extra  lialf 
hour  at  his  toilet,  brushing  and  furbishing  up  his  best, 
and  indeed  only  suit  of  rusty  black,  and  arranging  his 
looks  by  a  bit  of  broken  looking-glass,  that  hung  up  in 
the  schoolhouse.  That  he  might  make  his  appearance 
before  his  mistress  in  the  true  style  of  a  cavalier,  he 
borrowed  a  horse  from  the  farmer  with  whom  he  was 
domiciliated,  a  choleric  old  Dutchman,  of  the  name  of 
Hans  Van  Ripper,  and,  thus  gallantly  mounted,  issued 
fortli,  like  a  knight  errant  in  quest  of  adventures.  But 
it  is  meet  I  should,  in  the  true  spirit  of  romantic  story, 
give  some  account  of  the  looks  and  equipments  of  my 
hero  and  his  steed.  The  animal  he  bestrode  was  a 
broken-down  ploughhorse,  that  had  outlived  almost 
everything   but   his   viciousness.     He   was   gaunt   and 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  89 

shagged,  with  a  ewe  neck  and  a  head  like  a  hammer; 
his  rusty  mane  and  tail  were  tangled  and  knotted  with 
burrs;  one  eye  had  lost  its  pupil,  and  was  glaring  and 
spectral,  but  the  other  had  the  gleam  of  a  genuine  devil 
in  it.  Still  he  must  have  had  fire  and  mettle  in  his  day, 
if  we  may  judge  from  the  name  he  bore  of  Gunpowder. 
He  had,  in  fact,  been  a  favorite  steed  of  his  master's, 
the  choleric  Van  Ripper,  who  was  a  furious  rider,  and 
had  infused,  very  probably,  some  of  his  own  spirit  into 
the  animal;  for,  old  and  broken  down  as  he  looked, 
there  was  more  of  the  lurking  devil  in  him  than  in  any 
young  filly  in  the  country. 

Ichabod  was  a  suitable  figure  for  such  a  steed.  He 
rode  with  short  stirrups,  which  brought  his  knees  nearly 
up  to  the  pommel  of  the  saddle;  his  sharp  elbows  stuck 
out  like  grasshoppers';  he  carried  his  whip  perpendicu- 
larly in  his  hand,  like  a  sceptre,  and,  as  his  horse  jogged 
on,  the  motion  of  his  arms  was  not  unlike  the  flapping 
of  a  pair  of  wings.  A  small  wool  hat  rested  on  the  top 
of  his  nose,  for  so  his  scanty  strip  of  forehead  might  be 
called,  and  the  skirts  of  his  black  coat  fluttered  out 
almost  to  the  horse's  tail.  Such  was  the  appearance 
of  Ichabod  and  his  steed,  as  they  shambled  out  of  the 
gate  of  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and  it  was  altogether  such 
an  apparition  as  is  seldom  to  be  met  with  in  broad 
daylight. 

It  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  fine  autumnal  day;  the  sky  was 
clear  and  serene,  and  nature  wore  that  rich  and  golden 
livery  which  we  always  associate  with  the  idea  of 
abundance.  The  forests  had  put  on  their  sober  brown 
and  yellow,  while  some  trees  of  the  tenderer  kind  had 


90  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

been  nipped  by  the  frosts  into  brilUant  dyes  of  orange, 
purple,  and  scarlet.  Streaming  files  of  wild  ducks  began 
to  make  their  appearance  high  in  the  air;  the  bark  of 
the  squirrel  might  be  heard  from  the  groves  of  beech 
and  hickory  nuts,  and  the  pensive  whistle  of  the  quail 
at  intervals  from  the  neighboring  stubble  field. 

The  small  birds  were  taking  their  farewell  banquets. 
In  the  fulness  of  their  revelry,  they  fluttered,  chirping 
and  frolicking,  from  bush  to  bush,  and  tree  to  tree, 
capricious  from  the  very  profusion  and  variety  around 
them.  There  was  the  honest  cock-robin,  the  favorite 
game  of  stripling  sportsmen,  with  Its  loud  querulous 
note,  and  the  twittering  blackbirds  flying  In  sable  clouds, 
and  the  golden-winged  woodpecker,  with  his  crimson 
crest,  his  broad  black  gorget,  and  splendid  plumage, 
and  the  cedar  bird,  with  its  red-tlpt  wings  and  yellow- 
tlpt  tail,  and  Its  little  monteiro  cap  of  feathers,  and  the 
blue  jay,  that  noisy  coxcomb,  in  his  gay  light  blue  coat 
and  white  under  clothes,  screaming  and  chattering, 
nodding,  and  bobbing,  and  bowing,  pretending  to  be 
on  good  terms  with  every  songster  of  the  grove. 

As  Ichabod  jogged  slowly  on  his  way,  his  eye,  ever 
open  to  every  symptom  of  culinary  abundance,  ranged 
with  delight  over  the  treasures  of  jolly  autumn.  On  all 
sides  he  beheld  vast  store  of  apples,  some  hanging  In 
oppressive  opulence  on  the  trees,  some  gathered  into 
baskets  and  barrels  for  the  market,  others  heaped  up 
in  rich  piles  for  the  cidcr-press.  Farther  on  he  beheld 
great  fields  of  Indian  corn,  with  its  golden  cars  peeping 
from  their  leafy  coverts,  and  holding  out  the  promise 
of  cakes  and  hasty  pudding,  and  the  yellow  pumpkins 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  91 

lying  beneath  them,  turning  up  their  fair  round  bellies 
to  the  sun,  and  giving  ample  prospects  of  the  most 
luxurious  of  pies;  and  anon  he  passed  the  fragrant 
buckwheat  fields,  breathing  the  odor  of  the  beehive, 
and  as  he  beheld  them,  soft  anticipations  stole  over  his 
mind  of  dainty  slapjacks,  well  buttered,  and  garnished 
with  honey  or  treacle,  by  the  delicate  little  dimpled 
hand  of  Katrina  Van  Tassel. 

Thus  feeding  his  mind  with  many  sweet  thoughts! 
and  "sugared  suppositions,"  he  journeyed  along  the 
sides  of  a  range  of  hills  which  look  out  upon  some  of 
the  goodliest  scenes  of  the  mighty  Hudson.  The  sun 
gradually  wheeled  his  broad  disc  down  into  the  west. 
The  wide  bosom  of  the  Tappan  Zee  lay  motionless  and 
glassy,  excepting  that  here  and  there  a  gentle  undula- 
tion waved  and  prolonged  the  blue  shadow  of  the  distant 
mountain.  A  few  amber  clouds  floated  in  the  sky, 
without  a  breath  of  air  to  move  them.  The  horizon 
was  of  a  fine  golden  tint,  changing  gradually  into  a  pure 
apple  green,  and  from  that  into  the  deep  blue  of  the 
mid  heaven.  A  slanting  ray  lingered  on  the  woody 
crests  of  the  precipices  that  overhung  some  parts  of  the 
river,  giving  greater  depth  to  the  dark  grey  and  purple 
of  their  rocky  sides.  A  sloop  was  loitering  in  the  dis- 
tance, dropping  slowly  down  with  the  tide,  her  sail 
hanging  uselessly  against  the  mast;  and  as  the  reflec- 
tion of  the  sky  gleamed  along  the  still  water,  it  seemed  I 
as  if  the  vessel  was  suspended  in  the  air. 

It  was  towards  evening  that  Ichabod  arrived  at  the 
castle  of  the  Heer  Van  Tassel,  which  he  found  thronged 
with   the   pride   and   flower  of  the   adjacent  country. 


92  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

Old  farmers,  a  spare  leathern-faced  race,  in  homespun 
coats  and  breeches,  blue  stockings,  huge  shoes,  and 
magnificent  pewter  buckles.  Their  brisk  withered  little 
dames,  in  close  crimped  caps,  long-waisted  shortgowns, 
homespun  petticoats,  with  scissors  and  pincushions, 
and  gay  calico  pockets  hanging  on  the  outside.  Buxom 
lasses,  almost  as  antiquated  as  their  mothers,  excepting 
where  a  straw  hat,  a  fine  riband,  or  perhaps  a  white 
frock,  gave  symptoms  of  city  innovation.  The  sons, 
in  short  square-skirted  coats  with  rows  of  stupendous 
brass  buttons,  and  their  hair  generally  queued  in  the 
fashion  of  the  times,  especially  if  they  could  procure  an 
eel-skin  for  the  purpose,  it  being  esteemed,  throughout 
the  country,  as  a  potent  nourisher  and  strengthener  of 
the  hair. 

Brom  Bones,  however,  was  the  hero  of  the  scene, 
having  come  to  the  gathering  on  his  favorite  steed 
Daredevil,  a  creature,  like  himself,  full  of  mettle  and 
mischief,  and  which  no  one  but  himself  could  manage. 
He  was,  in  fact,  noted  for  preferring  vicious  animals, 
given  to  all  kinds  of  tricks,  which  kept  the  rider  in  con- 
stant risk  of  his  neck,  for  he  held  a  tractable  well-broken 
horse  as  unworthy  of  a  lad  of  spirit. 

Fain  would  I  pause  to  dwell  upon  the  world  of  charms 
that  burst  upon  the  enraptured  gaze  of  my  hero,  as  he 
entered  the  state  parlor  of  Van  Tassel's  mansion.  Not 
those  of  the  bevy  of  buxom  lasses,  with  their  luxurious 
display  of  red  and  white;  but  the  ample  charms  of  a 
genuine  Dutch  country  tea-table,  in  the  sumptuous 
time  of  autumn.  Such  heapcd-up  platters  of  cakes  of 
various   and   almost   indescribable   kinds,   known  only 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  93 

to  experienced  Dutch  housewives!  There  was  the 
doughty  doughnut,  the  tenderer  oly  koek,  and  the  crisp 
and  crumbling  cruller;  sweet  cakes  and  short  cakes, 
ginger  cakes  and  honey  cakes,  and  the  whole  family  of 
cakes.  And  then  there  were  apple  pies  and  peach  pies 
and  pumpkin  pies;  besides  slices  of  ham  and  smoked 
beef;  and  moreover  delectable  dishes  of  preserved 
plums,  and  peaches,  and  pears,  and  quinces;  not  to 
mention  broiled  shad  and  roasted  chickens;  together 
with  bowls  of  milk  and  cream,  all  mingled  higgledy- 
piggledy,  pretty  much  as  I  have  enumerated  them, 
with  the  motherly  teapot  sending  up  its  clouds 
of  vapor  from  the  midst — Heaven  bless  the  mark! 
I  want  breath  and  time  to  discuss  this  banquet 
as  it  deserves,  and  am  too  eager  to  get  on  with  my 
story.  Happily,  Ichabod  Crane  was  not  in  so  great  a 
hurry  as  his  historian,  but  did  ample  justice  to  every 
dainty. 

He  was  a  kind  and  thankful  creature,  whose  heart 
dilated  in  proportion  as  his  skin  was  filled  with  good 
cheer;  and  whose  spirits  rose  with  eating  as  some  men's 
do  with  drink.  He  could  not  help,  too,  rolling  his  large 
eyes  round  him  as  he  ate,  and  chuckling  with  the  possi- 
bility that  he  might  one  day  be  lord  of  all  this  scene  of 
almost  unimaginable  luxury  and  splendor.  Then,  he 
thought,  how  soon  he'd  turn  his  back  upon  the  old 
schoolhouse;  snap  his  fingers  in  the  face  of  Hans  Van 
Ripper,  and  every  other  niggardly  patron,  and  kick 
any  itinerant  pedagogue  out  of  doors  that  should  dare 
to  call  him  comrade! 

Old  Baltus  Van  Tassel  moved  about  among  his  guests 


94  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

with  a  face  dilated  with  content  and  good  humor,  round 
and  jolly  as  the  harvest  moon.  His  hospitable  atten- 
tions were  brief,  but  expressive,  being  confined  to  a 
shake  of  the  hand,  a  slap  on  the  shoulder,  a  loud  laugh, 
and  a  pressing  invitation  to  "fall  to,  and  help  them- 
selves." 

And  now  the  sound  of  the  music  from  the  common 
room,  or  hall,  summoned  to  the  dance.  The  musician 
was  an  old  grey-headed  negro,  who  had  been  the 
itinerant  orchestra  of  the  neighborhood  for  more  than 
half  a  century.  His  instrument  was  as  old  and  battered 
as  himself.  The  greater  part  of  the  time  he  scraped  on 
two  or  three  strings,  accompanying  every  movement 
of  the  bow  with  a  motion  of  the  head;  bowing  almost 
to  the  ground,  and  stamping  with  his  foot  whenever  a 
fresh  couple  were  to  start. 

Ichabod  prided  himself  upon  his  dancing  as  much  as 
upon  his  vocal  powers.  Not  a  limb,  not  a  fibre  about 
him  was  idle;  and  to  have  seen  his  loosely  hung  frame 
in  full  motion,  and  clattering  about  the  room,  you  would 
have  thought  Saint  Vitus  himself,  that  blessed  patron 
of  the  dance,  was  figuring  before  you  in  person.  He 
was  the  admiration  of  all  the  negroes;  who,  having 
gathered,  of  all  ages  and  sizes,  from  the  farm  and  the 
neighborhood,  stood  forming  a  pyramid  of  shining 
black  faces  at  every  door  and  window,  gazing  with 
delight  at  the  scene,  rolling  their  white  eyeballs,  and 
showing  grinning  rows  of  ivory  from  ear  to  ear.  How 
could  the  flogger  of  urchins  be  otherwise  than  animated 
and  joyous  .f"  The  lady  of  his  heart  was  his  partner  In 
the  dance,  and  smiling  graciously  In  reply  to  all  his 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  95 

amorous  oglings;  while  Brom  Bones,  sorely  smitten 
with  love  and  jealousy,  sat  brooding  by  himself  in  one 
corner. 

When  the  dance  was  at  an  end,  Ichabod  was  attracted 
to  a  knot  of  the  sager  folks,  who,  with  old  Van  Tassel, 
sat  smoking  at  one  end  of  the  piazza,  gossiping  over 
former  times,  and  drawing  out  long  stories  about  the 
war. 

This  neighborhood,  at  the  time  of  which  I  am  speak- 
ing, was  one  of  those  highly  favored  places  which 
abound  with  chronicle  and  great  men.  The  British 
and  American  line  had  run  near  it  during  the  war;  it 
had,  therefore,  been  the  scene  of  marauding,  and  in- 
fested with  refugees,  cowboys,  and  all  kinds  of  border 
chivalry.  Just  sufficient  time  had  elapsed  to  enable 
each  story-teller  to  dress  up  his  tale  with  a  little  becom- 
ing fiction,  and,  in  the  indistinctness  of  his  recollection, 
to  make  himself  the  hero  of  every  exploit. 

There  was  the  story  of  Duffue  Martling,  a  large  blue- 
bearded  Dutchman,  who  had  nearly  taken  a  British 
frigate  with  an  old  iron  nine-pounder  from  a  mud  breast- 
work, only  that  his  gun  burst  at  the  sixth  discharge. 
And  there  was  an  old  gentleman  who  shall  be  nameless, 
being  too  rich  a  mynheer  to  be  lightly  mentioned,  who, 
in  the  battle  of  Whiteplains,  being  an  excellent  master 
of  defence,  parried  a  musket  ball  with  a  small  sword, 
insomuch  that  he  absolutely  felt  it  whiz  round  the  blade, 
and  glance  off  at  the  hilt:  in  proof  of  which,  he  was 
ready  at  any  time  to  show  the  sword,  with  the  hilt  a 
little  bent.  There  were  several  more  that  had  been 
equally  great  in   the  field,  not  one  of  whom  but  was 


96  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

persuaded  that  he  had  a  considerable  hand  in  bring- 
ing the  war  to  a  happy  termination. 

But  all  these  were  nothing  to  the  tales  of  ghosts  and 
apparitions  that  succeeded.  The  neighborhood  is  rich 
in  legendary  treasures  of  the  kind.  Local  tales  and 
superstitions  thrive  best  in  these  sheltered,  long-settled 
retreats;  but  are  trampled  under  foot  by  the  shifting 
throng  that  forms  the  population  of  most  of  our  country 
places.  Besides,  there  is  no  encouragement  for  ghosts 
in  most  of  our  villages,  for  they  have  scarcely  had  time 
to  finish  their  first  nap,  and  turn  themselves  in  their 
graves,  before  their  surviving  friends  have  travelled 
away  from  the  neighborhood;  so  that  when  they  turn 
out  at  night  to  walk  their  rounds,  they  have  no  ac- 
quaintance left  to  call  upon.  This  is,  perhaps,  the  rea- 
son why  we  so  seldom  hear  of  ghosts  except  in  our  long- 
established  Dutch  communities. 

The  immediate  cause,  however,  of  the  prevalence  of 
supernatural  stories  in  these  parts,  was  doubtless  owing 
to  the  vicinity  of  Sleepy  Hollow.  There  was  a  contagion 
in  the  very  air  that  blew  from  that  haunted  region;  it 
breathed  forth  an  atmosphere  of  dreams  and  fancies 
infecting  all  the  land.  Several  of  the  Sleepy  Hollow 
people  were  present  at  Van  Tassel's,  and,  as  usual,  were 
doling  out  their  wild  and  wonderful  legends.  Many 
dismal  tales  were  told  about  funeral  trains,  and  mourn- 
ing cries  and  wailings  heard  and  seen  about  the  great 
tree  where  the  unfortunate  Major  Andre  was  taken, 
and  which  stood  in  the  neighborhood.  Some  mention 
was  made  also  of  the  woman  in  white,  that  haunted  the 
dark  glen  at  Raven  Rock,  and  was  often  heard  to  shriek 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  97 

on  winter  nights  before  a  storm,  having  perished  there 
in  the  snow.  The  chief  part  of  the  stories,  however, 
turned  upon  the  favorite  spectre  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  the 
headless  horseman,  who  had  been  heard  several  times 
of  late,  patrolling  the  country;  and,  it  was  said, 
tethered  his  horse  nightly  among  the  graves  in  the 
churchyard. 

The  sequestered  situation  of  this  church  seems  always 
to  have  made  it  a  favorite  haunt  of  troubled  spirits. 
It  stands  on  a  knoll,  surrounded  by  locust-trees  and 
lofty  elms,  from  among  which  its  decent  whitewashed 
walls  shine  modestly  forth,  like  Christian  purity,  beam- 
ing through  the  shades  of  retirement.  A  gentle  slope 
descends  from  it  to  a  silver  sheet  of  water,  bordered  by 
high  trees,  between  which  peeps  may  be  caught  at  the 
blue  hills  of  the  Hudson.  To  look  upon  its  grass-grown 
yard,  where  the  sunbeams  seem  to  sleep  so  quietly,  one 
would  think  that  there  at  least  the  dead  might  rest  in 
peace.  On  one  side  of  the  church  extends  a  wide  woody 
dell,  along  which  raves  a  large  brook  among  broken 
rocks  and  trunks  of  fallen  trees.  Over  a  deep  black 
part  of  the  stream,  not  far  from  the  church,  was  formerly 
thrown  a  wooden  bridge;  the  road  that  led  to  it,  and 
the  bridge  itself,  were  thickly  shaded  by  overhanging 
trees,  which  cast  a  gloom  about  it,  even  in  the  daytime; 
but  occasioned  a  fearful  darkness  at  night.  Such  was 
one  of  the  favorite  haunts  of  the  headless  horseman; 
and  the  place  where  he  was  most  frequently  encountered. 
The  tale  was  told  of  old  Brouwer,  a  most  heretical  dis- 
believer in  ghosts,  how  he  met  the  horseman  returning 
from  his  foray  into  Sleepy  Hollow,  and  was  obliged  to 


98  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

get  up  behind  him;  how  they  galloped  over  bush  and 
brake,  over  hill  and  swamp,  until  they  reached  the 
bridge;  when  the  horseman  suddenly  turned  into  a 
skeleton,  threw  old  Brouwer  into  the  brook,  and  sprang 
away  over  the  tree-tops  with  a  clap  of  thunder. 

This  story  was  immediately  matched  by  a  thrice 
marvellous  adventure  of  Brom  Bones,  who  made  light 
of  the  galloping  Hessian  as  an  arrant  jockey.  He 
affirmed  that,  on  returning  one  night  from  the  neigh- 
boring village  of  Sing-Sing,  he  had  been  overtaken  by 
this  midnight  trooper;  that  he  had  offered  to  race  with 
him  for  a  bowl  of  punch,  and  should  have  won  it  too, 
for  Daredevil  beat  the  goblin  horse  all  hollow,  but, 
just  as  they  came  to  the  church  bridge,  the  Hessian 
bolted,  and  vanished  in  a  flash  of  fire. 

All  these  tales,  told  in  that  drowsy  undertone  with 
which  men  talk  in  the  dark,  the  countenances  of  the 
listeners  only  now  and  then  receiving  a  casual  gleam 
from  the  glare  of  a  pipe,  sank  deep  into  the  mind  of 
Ichabod.  He  repaid  them  in  kind  with  large  extracts 
from  his  invaluable  author.  Cotton  Mather,  and  added 
many  marvellous  events  that  had  taken  place  in  his 
native  state  of  Connecticut,  and  fearful  sights  which 
he  had  seen  in  his  nightly  walks  about  Sleepy  Hollow. 

The  revel  now  gradually  broke  up.  The  old  farmers 
gathered  together  their  families  in  their  wagons,  and 
were  heard  for  some  time  rattling  along  the  hollow 
roads,  and  over  the  distant  hills.  Some  of  the  damsels 
mounted  on  pillions  behind  their  favorite  swains,  and 
their  light-hearted  lauglitcr,  mingling  with  the  clatter 
of  hoofs,  echoed  along  the  silent  woodlands,  sounding 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  99 

fainter  and  fainter  until  they  gradually  died  away — 
and  the  late  scene  of  noise  and  frolic  was  all  silent  and 
deserted.  Ichabod  only  lingered  behind,  according  to 
the  custom  of  country  lovers,  to  have  a  tete-a-tete  with 
the  heiress,  fully  convinced  that  he  was  now  on  the 
high  road  to  success.  What  passed  at  this  interview  I 
will  not  pretend  to  say,  for  in  fact  I  do  not  know.  Some- 
thing, however,  I  fear  me,  must  have  gone  wrong,  for 
he  certainly  sallied  forth,  after  no  very  great  interval, 
with  an  air  quite  desolate  and  chopfallen — Oh  these 
women!  these  women!  Could  that  girl  have  been  play- 
ing off  any  of  her  coquettish  tricks.^ — Was  her  encour- 
agement of  the  poor  pedagogue  all  a  mere  sham  to 
secure  her  conquest  of  his  rival.? — Heaven  only  knows, 
not  I! — Let  it  suffice  to  say,  Ichabod  stole  forth  with 
the  air  of  one  who  had  been  sacking  a  henroost,  rather 
than  a  fair  lady's  heart.  Without  looking  to  the  right 
or  left  to  notice  the  scene  of  rural  wealth,  on  which  he 
had  so  often  gloated,  he  went  straight  to  the  stable,  and 
with  several  hearty  cuffs  and  kicks,  roused  his  steed 
most  uncourteously  from  the  comfortable  quarters  in 
which  he  was  soundly  sleeping,  dreaming  of  mountains 
of  corn  and  oats,  and  whole  valleys  of  timothy  and 
clover. 

It  was  the  very  witching  time  of  night  that  Ichabod, 
heavy-hearted  and  crestfallen,  pursued  his  travel 
homewards,  along  the  sides  of  the  lofty  hills  which  rise 
above  Tarry  Town,  and  which  he  had  traversed  so 
cheerily  in  the  afternoon.  The  hour  was  as  dismal  as 
himself.  Far  below  him,  the  Tappan  Zee  spread  its 
dusky  and  indistinct  waste  of  waters,  with  here  and 


loo  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

there  the  tall  mast  of  a  sloop,  riding  quietly  at  anchor 
under  the  land.  In  the  dead  hush  of  midnight,  he  could 
even  hear  the  barking  of  the  watch-dog  from  the  oppo- 
site shore  of  the  Hudson;  but  it  was  so  vague  and  faint 
as  only  to  give  an  idea  of  his  distance  from  this  faithful 
companion  of  man.  Now  and  then,  too,  the  long-drawn 
crowing  of  a  cock,  accidentally  awakened,  would  sound 
far,  far  off,  from  some  farmhouse  away  among  the  hills 
— but  it  was  like  a  dreaming  sound  in  his  ear.  No 
signs  of  life  occurred  near  him,  but  occasionally  the 
melancholy  chirp  of  a  cricket,  or  perhaps  the  guttural 
twang  of  a  bullfrog,  from  a  neighboring  marsh,  as  if 
sleeping  uncomfortably,  and  turning  suddenly  in  his 
bed. 

All  the  stories  of  ghosts  and  goblins  that  he  had 
heard  in  the  afternoon,  now  came  crowding  upon  his 
recollection.  The  night  grew  darker  and  darker;  the 
stars  seemed  to  sink  deeper  in  the  sky,  and  driving 
clouds  occasionally  hid  them  from  his  sight.  He  had 
never  felt  so  lonely  and  dismal.  He  was,  moreover, 
approaching  the  very  place  where  many  of  the  scenes 
of  the  ghost  stories  had  been  laid.  In  the  centre  of  the 
road  stood  an  enormous  tulip  tree,  which  towered  like 
a  giant  above  all  the  other  trees  of  the  neighborhood, 
and  formed  a  kind  of  landmark.  Its  limbs  were  gnarled, 
and  fantastic,  large  enough  to  form  trunks  for  ordinary 
trees,  twisting  down  almost  to  the  earth,  and  rising 
again  into  the  air.  It  was  connected  with  the  tragical 
story  of  the  unfortunate  Andr6,  who  had  been  taken 
prisoner  hard  by;  and  was  universally  known  by  the 
name  of  Major  Andre's  tree.    The  common  people  re- 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  loi 

garded  it  with  a  mixture  of  respect  and  superstition, 
partly  out  of  sympathy  for  the  fate  of  its  ill-starred 
namesake,  and  partly  from  the  tales  of  strange  sights 
and  doleful  lamentations  told  concerning  it. 

As  Ichabod  approached  this  fearful  tree,  he  began 
to  whistle:  he  thought  his  whistle  was  answered — it 
was  but  a  blast  sweeping  sharply  through  the  dry 
branches.  As  he  approached  a  little  nearer,  he  thought 
he  saw  something  white,  hanging  in  the  midst  of  the 
tree — he  paused  and  ceased  whistling;  but  on  looking 
more  narrowly,  perceived  that  it  was  a  place  where  the 
tree  had  been  scathed  by  lightning,  and  the  white  wood 
laid  bare.  Suddenly  he  heard  a  groan — his  teeth  chat- 
tered and  his  knees  smote  against  the  saddle:  it  was 
but  the  rubbing  of  one  huge  bough  upon  another,  as 
they  were  swayed  about  by  the  breeze.  He  passed  the 
tree  in  safety,  but  new  perils  lay  before  him. 

About  two  hundred  yards  from  the  tree  a  small  brook 
crossed  the  road,  and  ran  into  a  marshy  and  thickly- 
wooded  glen,  known  by  the  name  of  Wiley's  swamp. 
A  few  rough  logs,  laid  side  by  side,  served  for  a  bridge 
over  this  stream.  On  that  side  of  the  road  where  the 
brook  entered  the  wood,  a  group  of  oaks  and  chestnuts, 
matted  thick  with  wild  grapevines,  threw  a  cavernous 
gloom  over  it.  To  pass  this  bridge  was  the  severest 
trial.  It  was  at  this  identical  spot  that  the  unfortunate 
Andre  was  captured,  and  under  the  covert  of  those 
chestnuts  and  vines  were  the  sturdy  yeomen  concealed 
who  surprised  him.  This  has  ever  since  been  considered 
a  haunted  stream,  and  fearful  are  the  feelings  of  the 
schoolboy  who  has  to  pass  it  alone  after  dark. 


102  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

As  he  approached  the  stream,  his  heart  began  to 
thump;  he  summoned  up,  however,  all  his  resolution, 
gave  his  horse  half  a  score  of  kicks  in  the  ribs,  and 
attempted  to  dash  briskly  across  the  bridge;  but  in- 
stead of  starting  forward,  the  perverse  old  animal  made 
a  lateral  movement,  and  ran  broadside  against  the 
fence.  Ichabod,  whose  fears  increased  with  the  delay, 
jerked  the  reins  on  the  other  side  and  kicked  lustily 
with  the  contrary  foot:  it  was  all  in  vain;  his  steed 
started,  it  is  true,  but  it  was  only  to  plunge  to  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  road  into  a  thicket  of  brambles  and  alder 
bushes.  The  schoolmaster  now  bestowed  both  whip 
and  heel  upon  the  starveling  ribs  of  old  Gun- 
powder, who  dashed  forward,  snuffling  and  snorting, 
but  came  to  a  stand  just  by  the  bridge,  with  a  sudden- 
ness that  had  nearly  sent  his  rider  sprawling  over  his 
head.  Just  at  this  moment  a  plashy  tramp  by  the  side 
of  the  bridge  caught  the  sensitive  ear  of  Ichabod.  In 
the  dark  shadow  of  the  grove,  on  the  margin  of  the 
brook,  he  beheld  something  huge,  misshapen,  black, 
and  towering.  It  stirred  not,  but  seemed  gathered  up 
in  the  gloom,  like  some  gigantic  monster  ready  to  spring 
upon  the  traveller. 

The  hair  of  the  affrighted  pedagogue  rose  upon  his 
head  with  terror.  What  was  to  be  done.''  To  turn  and 
fly  was  now  too  late;  and  besides,  what  chance  was 
there  of  escaping  ghost  or  goblin,  if  such  it  was,  which 
could  ride  upon  the  wings  of  the  wind.'  Summoning 
up,  therefore,  a  show  of  courage,  he  demanded  in  stam- 
mering accents — "Who  are  you.'"'  He  received  no 
reply.    He  repeated  his  demand  in  a  still  more  agitated 


Storm  King  at  the  northern  gatezvay  to  the  Highlands 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  103 

voice.  Still  there  was  no  answer.  Once  more  he  cud- 
gelled the  sides  of  the  inflexible  Gunpowder,  and,  shut- 
ting his  eyes,  broke  forth  with  involuntary  fervor  into 
a  psalm  tune.  Just  then  the  shadowy  object  of  alarm 
put  itself  in  motion,  and,  with  a  scramble  and  a  bound, 
stood  at  once  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  Though  the 
night  was  dark  and  dismal,  yet  the  form  of  the  unknown 
might  now  in  some  degree  be  ascertained.  He  appeared 
to  be  a  horseman  of  large  dimensions,  and  mounted  on 
a  black  horse  of  powerful  frame.  He  made  no  offer  of 
molestation  or  sociability,  but  kept  aloof  on  one  side 
of  the  road,  jogging  along  on  the  blind  side  of  old  Gun- 
powder, who  had  now  got  over  his  fright  and  way- 
wardness. 

Ichabod,  who  had  no  relish  for  this  strange  midnight 
companion,  and  bethought  himself  of  the  adventure 
of  Brom  Bones  with  the  Galloping  Hessian,  now  quick- 
ened his  steed,  in  hopes  of  leaving  him  behind.  The 
stranger,  however,  quickened  his  horse  to  an  equal 
pace.  Ichabod  pulled  up,  and  fell  into  a  walk,  thinking 
to  lag  behind — the  other  did  the  same.  His  heart  be- 
gan to  sink  within  him;  he  endeavored  to  resume  his 
psalm  tune,  but  his  parched  tongue  clove  to  the  roof 
of  his  mouth,  and  he  could  not  utter  a  stave.  There 
was  something  in  the  moody  and  dogged  silence  of  this 
pertinacious  companion,  that  was  mysterious  and  ap- 
palling. It  was  soon  fearfully  accounted  for.  On 
mounting  a  rising  ground,  which  brought  the  figure  of 
his  fellow  traveller  in  relief  against  the  sky,  gigantic  in 
height,  and  mufBed  in  a  cloak,  Ichabod  was  horror- 
struck,  on  perceiving  that  he  was  headless! — but  his 


I04  Stones  of  the  Hudson 

horror  was  still  more  increased,  on  observing  that  the 
head,  which  should  have  rested  on  his  shoulders,  was 
carried  before  him  on  the  pommel  of  the  saddle:  his 
terror  rose  to  desperation;  he  rained  a  shower  of  kicks 
and  blows  upon  Gunpowder,  hoping,  by  a  sudden 
movement,  to  give  his  companion  the  slip — but  the 
spectre  started  full  jump  with  him.  Away  then  they 
dashed,  through  thick  and  thin;  stones  flying,  and 
sparks  flashing,  at  every  bound.  Ichabod's  flimsy  gar- 
ments fluttered  in  the  air,  as  he  stretched  his  long  lank 
body  away  over  his  horse's  head,  in  the  eagerness  of 
his  flight. 

They  had  now  reached  the  road  which  turns  off"  to 
Sleepy  Hollow;  but  Gunpowder,  who  seemed  possessed 
with  a  demon,  instead  of  keeping  up  it,  made  an  oppo- 
site turn,  and  plunged  headlong  down  hill  to  the  left. 
This  road  leads  through  a  sandy  hollow,  shaded  by 
trees  for  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  where  it  crosses  the 
bridge  famous  in  goblin  story,  and  just  beyond  swells 
the  green  knoll  on  which  stands  the  whitewashed 
church. 

As  yet  the  panic  of  the  steed  had  given  his  unskilful 
rider  an  apparent  advantage  in  the  chase;  but  just  as 
he  had  got  half  way  through  the  hollow,  the  girths  of 
the  saddle  gave  way,  and  he  felt  it  slipping  from  under 
him.  He  seized  it  by  the  pommel,  and  endeavored  to 
hold  it  firm,  but  in  vain;  and  had  just  time  to  save 
himself  by  clasping  old  Gunpowder  round  the  neck,  when 
the  saddle  fell  to  the  earth,  and  he  heard  it  trampled 
under  foot  by  his  pursuer.  For  a  moment  the  terror 
of  Hans  Van  Ripper's  wrath  passed  across  his  mind — 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  105 

for  it  was  his  Sunday  saddle;  but  this  was  no  time  for 
petty  fears;  the  goblin  was  hard  on  his  haunches;  and 
(unskilful  rider  that  he  was!)  he  had  much  ado  to  main- 
tain his  seat;  sometimes  slipping  on  one  side,  some- 
times on  another,  and  sometimes  jolted  on  the  high 
ridge  of  his  horse's  back  bone,  with  a  violence  that  he 
verily  feared  would  cleave  him  asunder. 

An  opening  in  the  trees  now  cheered  him  with  the 
hopes  that  the  church  bridge  was  at  hand.  The  waver- 
ing reflection  of  a  silver  star  in  the  bosom  of  the  brook 
told  him  that  he  was  not  mistaken.  He  saw  the  walls 
of  the  church  dimly  glaring  under  the  trees  beyond. 
He  recollected  the  place  where  Brom  Bones'  ghostly 
competitor  had  disappeared.  "If  I  can  but  reach  that 
bridge,"  thought  Ichabod,  "I  am  safe."  Just  then  he 
heard  the  black  steed  panting  and  blowing  close  be- 
hind him;  he  even  fancied  that  he  felt  his  hot  breath. 
Another  convulsive  kick  in  the  ribs,  and  old  Gunpowder 
sprang  upon  the  bridge;  he  thundered  over  the  resound- 
ing planks;  he  gained  the  opposite  side,  and  now  Icha- 
bod cast  a  look  behind  to  see  if  his  pursuer  should 
vanish,  according  to  rule,  In  a  flash  of  fire  and  brim- 
stone. Just  then  he  saw  the  goblin  rising  In  his  stirrup, 
and  in  the  very  act  of  hurling  his  head  at  him.  Icha- 
bod endeavored  to  dodge  the  horrible  missile,  but  too 
late.  It  encountered  his  cranium  with  a  tremendous 
crash — he  was  tumbled  headlong  into  the  dust,  and 
Gunpowder,  the  black  steed,  and  the  goblin  rider  passed 
by  like  a  whirlwind. 

The  next  morning  the  old  horse  was  found  without 
his  saddle,  and  with  the  bridle  under  his  feet,  soberly 


lo6  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

cropping  the  grass  at  his  master's  gate.  Ichabod  did 
not  make  his  appearance  at  breakfast — dinner  hour 
came,  but  no  Ichabod.  The  boys  assembled  at  the 
schoolhouse,  and  strolled  idly  about  the  banks  of  the 
brook,  but  no  schoolmaster.  Hans  Van  Ripper  now 
began  to  feel  some  uneasiness  about  the  fate  of  poor 
Ichabod  and  his  saddle.  An  inquiry  was  set  on  foot, 
and  after  diligent  investigation  they  came  upon  his 
traces.  In  one  part  of  the  road  leading  to  the  church 
was  found  the  saddle  trampled  in  the  dirt;  the  tracks 
of  horses'  hoofs  deeply  dented  in  the  road,  and  evidently 
at  furious  speed,  were  traced  to  the  bridge,  beyond 
which,  on  the  bank  of  a  broad  part  of  the  brook,  where 
the  water  ran  deep  and  black,  was  found  the  hat  of  the 
unfortunate  Ichabod,  and  close  beside  it  a  shattered 
pumpkin. 

The  brook  was  searched,  but  the  body  of  the  school- 
master was  not  to  be  discovered.  Hans  Van  Ripper,  as 
executor  of  his  estate,  examined  the  bundle  which  con- 
tained all  his  wordly  effects.  They  consisted  of  two 
shirts  and  a  half,  two  stocks  for  the  neck,  a  pair  or  two 
of  worsted  stockings,  an  old  pair  of  corduroy  small- 
clothes, a  rusty  razor,  a  book  of  psalm  tunes,  full  of 
dog's  ears,  and  a  broken  pitch  pipe.  As  to  the  books 
and  furniture  of  the  schoolhouse,  they  belonged  to 
the  community,  excepting  Cotton  Mather's  History 
of  Witchcraft,  a  New  England  Almanac,  and  a  book  of 
dreams  and  fortunc-tcUing,  in  which  last  was  a  sheet 
of  foolscap,  much  scribbled  and  blotted,  in  several 
fruitless  attempts  to  make  a  copy  of  verses  in  honor  of 
the  heiress  of  Van  Tassel.    These  magic  books  and  the 


The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  107 

poetic  scrawl  were  forthwith  consigned  to  the  flames  by 
Hans  Van  Ripper,  who,  from  that  time  forward,  de- 
termined to  send  his  children  no  more  to  school,  observ- 
ing, that  he  never  knew  any  good  come  of  this  same 
reading  and  writing.  Whatever  money  the  school- 
master possessed,  and  he  had  received  his  quarter's 
pay  but  a  day  or  two  before,  he  must  have  had  about 
his  person  at  the  time  of  his  disappearance. 

The  mysterious  event  caused  much  speculation  at 
the  church  on  the  following  Sunday.  Knots  of  gazers 
and  gossips  were  collected  in  the  churchyard,  at  the 
bridge,  and  at  the  spot  where  the  hat  and  pumpkin  had 
been  found.  The  stories  of  Brouwer,  of  Bones,  and  a 
whole  budget  of  others,  were  called  to  mind,  and  when 
they  had  diligently  considered  them  all,  and  compared 
them  with  the  symptoms  of  the  present  case,  they 
shook  their  heads,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
Ichabod  had  been  carried  off  by  the  galloping  Hessian. 
As  he  was  a  bachelor,  and  in  nobody's  debt,  nobody 
troubled  his  head  any  more  about  him;  the  school  was 
removed  to  a  different  quarter  of  the  hollow,  and  an- 
other pedagogue  reigned  in  his  stead. 

It  is  true,  an  old  farmer,  who  had  been  down  to  New 
York  on  a  visit  several  years  after,  and  from  whom  this 
account  of  the  ghostly  adventure  was  received,  brought 
home  the  intelligence  that  Ichabod  Crane  was  still 
alive;  that  he  had  left  the  neighborhood,  partly  through 
fear  of  the  goblin  and  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and  partly  in 
mortification  at  having  been  suddenly  dismissed  by 
the  heiress;  that  he  had  changed  his  quarters  to  a  dis- 
tant part  of  the  country,  had  kept  school  and  studied 


lo8  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

law  at  the  same  time,  had  been  admitted  to  the  bar, 
turned  poHtician,  electioneered,  written  for  the  news- 
papers, and  finally  had  been  made  a  justice  of  the  Ten 
Pound  Court.  Brom  Bones,  too,  who  shortly  after  his 
rival's  disappearance  conducted  the  blooming  Katrina 
in  triumph  to  the  altar,  was  observed  to  look  exceedingly 
knowing  whenever  the  story  of  Ichabod  was  related, 
and  always  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh  at  the  mention  of 
the  pumpkin,  which  led  some  to  suspect  that  he  knew 
more  about  the  matter  than  he  chose  to  tell. 

The  old  country  wives,  however,  who  are  the  best 
judges  of  these  matters,  maintain  to  this  day  that 
Ichabod  was  spirited  away  by  supernatural  means, 
and  it  is  a  favorite  story  often  told  about  the  neighbor- 
hood round  the  winter  evening  fire.  The  bridge  became 
more  than  ever  an  object  of  superstitious  awe,  and  that 
may  be  the  reason  why  the  road  has  been  altered  of 
late  years,  so  as  to  approach  the  church  by  the  border 
of  the  mill  pond.  The  schoolhouse  being  deserted, 
soon  fell  to  decay,  and  was  reported  to  be  haunted  by 
tlie  ghost  of  the  unfortunate  pedagogue,  and  the  plough- 
boy,  loitering  homeward  of  a  still  summer  evening,  has 
often  fancied  his  voice  at  a  distance,  chanting  a  mel- 
ancholy psalm  tune  among  the  tranquil  solitudes  of 
Sleepy  Hollow. 


POSTSCRIPT 


FOUND    IN    THE    HANDWRITING    OF   MR,    KNICKERBOCKER. 

The  preceding  Tale  is  given  almost  in  the  precise  words  in  which 
I  heard  it  related  at  a  Corporation  meeting  at  the  ancient  city  of 
Manhattoes,  at  which  were  present  many  of  its  sagest  and  most 
illustrious  burghers.  The  narrator  was  a  pleasant,  shabby,  gentle- 
manly old  fellow,  in  pepper-and-salt  clothes,  with  a  sadly  humorous 
face,  and  one  whom  I  strongly  suspected  of  being  poor — he  made 
such  efforts  to  be  entertaining.  When  his  story  was  concluded, 
there  was  much  laughter  and  approbation,  particularly  from  two 
or  three  deputy  aldermen,  who  had  been  asleep  the  greater  part  of 
the  time.  There  was,  however,  one  tall,  dry-looking  old  gentleman, 
with  beetling  eyebrows,  who  maintained  a  grave  and  rather  severe 
face  throughout,  now  and  then  folding  his  arms,  inclining  his  head, 
and  looking  down  upon  the  floor,  as  if  turning  a  doubt  over  in  his 
mind.  He  was  one  of  your  wary  men,  who  never  laugh  but  upon 
good  grounds — when  they  have  reason  and  law  on  their  side.  When 
the  mirth  of  the  rest  of  the  company  had  subsided,  and  silence  was 
restored,  he  leaned  one  arm  on  the  elbow  of  his  chair,  and,  sticking 
the  other  a-kimbo,  demanded,  with  a  slight,  but  exceedingly  sage 
motion  of  the  head,  and  contraction  of  the  brow,  what  was  the 
moral  of  the  story,  and  what  it  went  to  prove .'' 

The  story  teller,  who  was  just  putting  a  glass  of  wine  to  his  lips, 
as  a  refreshment  after  his  toils,  paused  for  a  moment,  looked  at  his 
inquirer  with  an  air  of  infinite  deference,  and,  lowering  the  glass 
slowly  to  the  table,  observed,  that  the  story  was  intended  most 
logically  to  prove — 

"That  there  is  no  situation  in  life  but  has  its  advantages  and 
pleasures — provided  we  will  but  take  a  joke  as  we  find  it. 


no  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

"That,  therefore,  he  that  runs  races  with  goblin  troopers  is 
likely  to  have  rough  riding  of  it. 

"Ergo,  for  a  country  schoolmaster  to  be  refused  the  hand  of  a 
Dutch  heiress,  is  a  certain  step  to  high  preferment  in  the  state." 

The  cautious  old  gentleman  knit  his  brows  tenfold  closer  after 
this  explanation,  being  sorely  puzzled  by  the  ratiocination  of  the 
syllogism,  while,  methought,  the  one  in  pepper-and-salt  eyed  him 
with  something  of  a  triumphant  leer.  At  length,  he  observed,  that 
all  this  was  very  well,  but  still  he  thought  the  story  a  little  on  the 
extravagant — there  were  one  or  two  points  on  which  he  had  his 
doubts. 

"Faith,  sir,"  replied  the  story  teller,  "as  to  that  matter,  I  don't 
believe  one  half  of  it  myself." 


DOLPH  HEYLIGER 


TN  the  early  time  of  the  province  of  New  York,  while 
it  groaned  under  the  tyranny  of  the  English  gov- 
ernor, Lord  Cornbury,  who  carried  his  cruelties  towards 
the  Dutch  inhabitants  so  far  as  to  allow  no  dominie, 
or  schoolmaster,  to  officiate  in  their  language,  without 
his  special  license;  about  this  time,  there  lived  in  the 
jolly  little  old  city  of  the  Manhattoes,  a  kind  motherly 
dame,  known  by  the  name  of  Dame  Heyliger.  She 
was  the  widow  of  a  Dutch  sea  captain,  who  died  sud- 
denly of  a  fever,  in  consequence  of  working  too  hard, 
and  eating  too  heartily,  at  the  time  when  all  the  in- 
habitants turned  out  in  a  panic,  to  fortify  the  place 
against  the  invasion  of  a  small  French  privateer.*  He 
left  her  with  very  little  money,  and  one  infant  son,  the 
only  survivor  of  several  children.  The  good  woman 
had  need  of  much  management  to  make  both  ends  meet, 
and  keep  up  a  decent  appearance.  However,  as  her 
husband  had  fallen  a  victim  to  his  zeal  for  the  public 
safety,  it  was  universally  agreed  that  "something  ought 
to  be  done  for  the  widow;"  and  on  the  hopes  of  this 
"something"  she  lived  tolerably  for  some  years;  in  the 
meantime  everybody  pitied  and  spoke  well  of  her,  and 
that  helped  along. 

She  lived  in  a  small  house,  in  a  small  street,  called 

*i7os 


112  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

Garden  Street,  very  probably  from  a  garden  which 
may  have  flourished  there  some  time  or  other.  As  her 
necessities  every  year  grew  greater,  and  the  talk  of  the 
public  about  doing  "something  for  her"  grew  less,  she 
had  to  cast  about  for  some  mode  of  doing  something 
for  herself,  by  way  of  helping  out  her  slender  means, 
and  maintaining  her  independence,  of  which  she  was 
somewhat  tenacious. 

Living  in  a  mercantile  town,  she  had  caught  some- 
thing of  the  spirit,  and  determined  to  venture  a  little 
in  the  great  lottery  of  commerce.  On  a  sudden,  there- 
fore, to  the  great  surprise  of  the  street,  there  appeared 
at  her  window  a  grand  array  of  gingerbread  kings  and 
queens,  with  their  arms  stuck  a-kimbo,  after  the  invari- 
able royal  manner.  There  were  also  several  broken 
tumblers,  some  filled  with  sugarplums,  some  with 
marbles;  there  were,  moreover,  cakes  of  various  kinds, 
and  barley  sugar,  and  Holland  dolls,  and  wooden 
horses,  with  here  and  there  gilt-covered  picture-books, 
and  now  and  then  a  skein  of  thread,  or  a  dangling  pound 
of  candles.  At  the  door  of  the  house  sat  the  good  old 
dame's  cat,  a  decent  demure-looking  personage,  who 
seemed  to  scan  everybody  that  passed,  to  criticise  their 
dress,  and  now  and  then  to  stretch  her  neck,  and  to 
look  out  with  sudden  curiosity,  to  see  what  was  going 
on  at  the  other  end  of  the  street;  but  if  by  chance  any 
idle  vagabond  dog  came  by,  and  offered  to  be  uncivil 
— hoity-toity! — how  she  would  bristle  up,  and  growl, 
and  spit,  and  strike  out  her  paws!  she  was  as  indignant 
as  ever  was  an  ancient  and  ugly  spinster  on  the  approach 
of  some  graceless  profligate. 


Dolph  Heyliger  113 

But  though  the  good  woman  had  to  come  down  to 
those  humble  means  of  subsistence,  yet  she  still  kept 
up  a  feeling  of  family  pride,  being  descended  from  the 
Vanderspiegels,  of  Amsterdam;  and  she  had  the  family 
arms  painted  and  framed,  and  hung  over  her  mantel- 
piece. She  was,  in  truth,  much  respected  by  all  the 
poorer  people  of  the  place;  her  house  was  quite  a  resort 
of  the  old  wives  of  the  neighborhood;  they  would  drop 
in  there  of  a  winter's  afternoon,  as  she  sat  knitting  on 
one  side  of  her  fireplace,  her  cat  purring  on  the  other, 
and  the  teakettle  singing  before  it,  and  they  would 
gossip  with  her  until  late  in  the  evening.  There  was 
always  an  armchair  for  Peter  de  Groodt,  sometimes 
called  Long  Peter,  and  sometimes  Peter  Longlegs,  the 
clerk  and  sexton  of  the  little  Lutheran  church,  who  was 
her  great  crony,  and,  indeed,  the  oracle  of  her  fireside. 
Nay,  the  dominie  himself  did  not  disdain,  now  and 
then,  to  step  in,  converse  about  the  state  of  her  mind, 
and  take  a  glass  of  her  special  good  cherry  brandy. 
Indeed,  he  never  failed  to  call  on  New  Year's  Day,  and 
wish  her  a  happy  New  Year;  and  the  good  dame,  who 
was  a  little  vain  on  some  points,  always  piqued  herself 
on  giving  him  as  large  a  cake  as  any  one  in  town. 

I  have  said  that  she  had  one  son.  He  was  the  child 
of  her  old  age;  but  could  hardly  be  called  the  comfort, 
for,  of  all  unlucky  urchins,  Dolph  Heyliger  was  the 
most  mischievous.  Not  that  the  whipster  was  really 
vicious,  he  was  only  full  of  fun  and  frolic,  and  had  that 
daring,  gamesome  spirit,  which  is  extolled  in  a  rich 
man's  child,  but  execrated  in  a  poor  man's.  He  was 
continually  getting  into  scrapes;    his  mother  was  in- 


114  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

cessantly  harassed  with  complaints  of  some  waggish 
pranks  which  he  had  played  off;  bills  were  sent  in  for 
windows  that  he  had  broken;  in  a  word,  he  had  not 
reached  his  fourteenth  year  before  he  was  pronounced, 
by  all  the  neighborhood,  to  be  a  "wicked  dog,  the 
wickedest  dog  in  the  street!"  Nay,  one  old  gentleman, 
in  a  claret-colored  coat,  with  a  thin  red  face,  and  ferret 
eyes,  went  so  far  as  to  assure  Dame  Heyliger  that  her 
son  would,  one  day  or  other,  come  to  the  gallows. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  all  this,  the  poor  soul  loved  her 
boy.  It  seemed  as  though  she  loved  him  the  better  the 
worse  he  behaved,  and  that  he  grew  more  in  her  favor, 
the  more  he  grew  out  of  favor  with  the  world.  Mothers 
are  foolish,  fond-hearted  beings;  there's  no  reasoning 
them  out  of  their  dotage ;  and,  indeed,  this  poor  woman's 
child  was  all  that  was  left  to  love  her  in  this  world,  so  we 
must  not  think  it  hard  that  she  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  her 
good  friends,  who  sought  to  prove  to  her  that  Dolph 
would  come  to  a  halter. 

To  do  the  varlet  justice,  too,  he  was  strongly  attached 
to  his  parent.  He  would  not  willingly  have  given  her 
pain  on  any  account,  and  when  he  had  been  doing 
wrong,  it  was  but  for  him  to  catch  his  poor  mother's 
eye  fixed  wistfully  and  sorrowfully  upon  him,  to  fill  his 
heart  with  bitterness  and  contrition.  But  he  was  a 
heedless  youngster,  and  could  not,  for  the  life  of  him, 
resist  any  new  temptation  to  fun  and  mischief.  Though 
quick  at  his  learning,  whenever  he  could  be  brought  to 
apply  himself,  he  was  always  prone  to  be  led  away  by 
idle  company,  and  would  play  truant  to  hunt  after 
birds'  nests,  to  rob  orchards,  or  to  swim  in  the  Hudson. 


Dolph  Heyllger  115 

In  this  way  he  grew  up  a  tall,  lubberly  boy,  and  his 
mother  began  to  be  greatly  perplexed  what  to  do  with 
him,  or  how  to  put  him  in  a  way  to  do  for  himself;  for 
he  had  acquired  such  an  unlucky  reputation,  that  no 
one  seemed  willing  to  employ  him. 

Many  were  the  consultations  that  she  held  with  Peter 
de  Groodt,  the  clerk  and  sexton,  who  was  her  prime 
counsellor.  Peter  was  as  much  perplexed  as  herself, 
for  he  had  no  great  opinion  of  the  boy,  and  thought  he 
would  never  come  to  good.  He  at  one  time  advised  her 
to  send  him  to  sea — a  piece  of  advice  only  given  in  the 
most  desperate  cases;  but  Dame  Heyliger  would  not 
listen  to  such  an  idea;  she  could  not  think  of  letting 
Dolph  go  out  of  her  sight.  She  was  sitting  one  day 
knitting  by  the  fireside,  in  great  perplexity,  when  the 
sexton  entered  with  an  air  of  unusual  vivacity  and 
briskness.  He  had  just  come  from  a  funeral.  It  had 
been  that  of  a  boy  of  Dolph's  years,  who  had  been 
apprentice  to  a  famous  German  doctor,  and  had  died 
of  a  consumption.  It  is  true,  there  had  been  a  whisper 
that  the  deceased  had  been  brought  to  his  end  by  being 
made  the  subject  of  the  doctor's  experiments,  on  which 
he  was  apt  to  try  the  effects  of  a  new  compound,  or  a 
quieting  draught.  This,  however,  it  is  likely  was  a 
mere  scandal;  at  any  rate,  Peter  de  Groodt  did  not 
think  it  worth  mentioning,  though,  had  we  time  to 
philosophize,  it  would  be  a  curious  matter  for  specula- 
tion, why  a  doctor's  family  is  apt  to  be  so  lean  and 
cadaverous,  and  a  butcher's  so  jolly  and  rubicund. 

Peter  de  Groodt,  as  I  said  before,  entered  the  house 
of  Dame  Heyliger  with  unusual  alacrity.     A  bright  idea 


ii6  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

had  popped  into  his  head  at  the  funeral,  over  which  he 
had  chuckled  as  he  shovelled  the  earth  into  the  grave 
of  the  doctor's  disciple.  It  had  occurred  to  him,  that, 
as  the  situation  of  the  deceased  was  vacant  at  the 
doctor's,  it  would  be  the  very  place  for  Dolph.  The 
boy  had  parts,  and  could  pound  a  pestle,  and  run  an 
errand  with  any  boy  in  the  town,  and  what  more  was 
wanted  in  a  student? 

The  suggestion  of  the  sage  Peter  was  a  vision  of  glory 
to  the  mother.  She  had  already  seen  Dolph,  in  her 
mind's  eye,  with  a  cane  at  his  nose,  a  knocker  at  his 
door,  and  an  M.D.  at  the  end  of  his  name — one  of  the 
established  dignitaries  of  the  town. 

The  matter  once  undertaken,  was  soon  effected:  the 
sexton  had  some  influence  with  the  doctor,  they  having 
had  much  dealing  together  in  the  way  of  their  separate 
professions;  and  the  very  next  morning  he  called  and 
conducted  the  urchin,  clad  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  to 
undergo  the  inspection  of  Dr.  Karl  Lodovick  Knip- 
perhausen. 

They  found  the  doctor  seated  in  an  elbow  chair,  in 
one  corner  of  his  study,  or  laboratory,  with  a  large 
volume,  in  German  print,  before  him.  He  was  a  short 
fat  man,  with  a  dark  square  face,  rendered  more  dark 
by  a  black  velvet  cap.  He  had  a  little  knobbed  nose, 
not  unlike  the  ace  of  spades,  with  a  pair  of  spectacles 
gleaming  on  each  side  of  his  dusky  countenance,  like  a 
couple  of  bow-windows. 

Dolph  felt  struck  with  awe  on  entering  into  the  pres- 
ence of  this  learned  man;  and  gazed  about  him  with 
boyish   wonder   at   the   furniture   of   this   chamber   of 


The  present  Battery 


Dolph  Heyllger  117 

knowledge,  which  appeared  to  him  almost  as  the  den 
of  a  magician.  In  the  centre  stood  a  claw-footed  table, 
with  pestle  and  mortar,  phials  and  gallipots,  and  a  pair 
of  small  burnished  scales.  At  one  end  was  a  heavy 
clothes-press,  turned  into  a  receptacle  for  drugs  and 
compounds;  against  which  hung  the  doctor's  hat  and 
cloak,  and  gold-headed  cane,  and  on  the  top  grinned  a 
human  skull.  Along  the  mantelpiece  were  glass  vessels, 
in  which  were  snakes  and  lizards,  and  a  human  foetus 
preserved  in  spirits.  A  closet,  the  doors  of  which  were 
taken  off,  contained  three  whole  shelves  of  books,  and 
some  too  of  mighty  folio  dimensions;  a  collection,  the 
like  of  which  Dolph  had  never  before  beheld.  As,  how- 
ever, the  library  did  not  take  up  the  whole  of  the  closet, 
the  doctor's  thrifty  housekeeper  had  occupied  the  rest 
with  pots  of  pickles  and  preserves;  and  had  hung  about 
the  room,  among  awful  implements  of  the  healing  art, 
strings  of  red  peppers  and  corpulent  cucumbers,  care- 
fully preserved  for  seed. 

Peter  de  Groodt  and  his  protege  were  received  with 
great  gravity  and  stateliness  by  the  doctor,  who  was 
a  very  wise,  dignified  little  man,  and  never  smiled. 
He  surveyed  Dolph  from  head  to  foot,  above,  and  under, 
and  through  his  spectacles,  and  the  poor  lad's  heart 
quailed  as  these  great  glasses  glared  on  him  like  two 
full  moons.  The  doctor  heard  all  that  Peter  de  Groodt 
had  to  say  in  favor  of  the  youthful  candidate;  and 
then  wetting  his  thumb  with  the  end  of  his  tongue,  he 
began  deliberately  to  turn  over  page  after  page  of  the 
great  black  volume  before  him.  At  length,  after  many 
hums  and  haws,  and  strokings  of  the  chin,  and  all  that 


Ii8  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

hesitation  and  deUberation  with  which  a  wise  man  pro- 
ceeds to  do  what  he  intended  to  do  from  the  very  first, 
the  doctor  agreed  to  take  the  lad  as  a  disciple;  to  give 
him  bed,  board,  and  clothing,  and  to  instruct  him  in  the 
healing  art;  in  return  for  which  he  was  to  have  his 
services  until  his  twenty-first  year. 

Behold,  then,  our  hero,  all  at  once  transformed  from 
an  unlucky  urchin,  running  wild  about  the  streets,  to 
a  student  of  medicine,  diligently  pounding  a  pestle, 
under  the  auspices  of  the  learned  Doctor  Karl  Lodovick 
Knipperhausen.  It  was  a  happy  transition  for  his  fond 
old  mother.  She  was  delighted  with  the  idea  of  her 
boy's  being  brought  up  worthy  of  his  ancestors;  and 
anticipated  the  day  when  he  would  be  able  to  hold 
up  his  head  with  the  lawyer,  that  lived  in  the  large 
house  opposite;  or,  peradventure,  with  the  dominie 
himself. 

Doctor  Knipperhausen  was  a  native  of  the  Palatin- 
ate in  Germany;  whence,  in  company  with  many  of 
his  countrymen,  he  had  taken  refuge  in  England,  on 
account  of  religious  persecution.  He  was  one  of  nearly 
three  thousand  Palatines,  who  came  over  from  Eng- 
land in  1 710,  under  the  protection  of  Governor  Hunter. 
Where  the  doctor  had  studied,  how  he  had  acquired 
his  medical  knowledge,  and  where  he  had  received  his 
diploma,  it  is  hard  at  present  to  say,  for  nobody  knew 
at  the  time;  yet  it  is  certain  that  his  profound  skill  and 
abstruse  knowledge  were  the  talk  and  wonder  of  the 
common  people,  far  and  near. 

His  practice  was  totally  difi"crcnt  from  that  of  any 
other  physician;    consisting  in  mysterious  compounds. 


Dolph  Heyliger  119 

known  only  to  himself,  in  the  preparing  and  adminis- 
tering of  which,  it  was  said,  he  always  consulted  the 
stars.  So  high  an  opinion  was  entertained  of  his  skill, 
particularly  by  the  German  and  Dutch  inhabitants, 
that  they  always  resorted  to  him  in  desperate  cases. 
He  was  one  of  those  infallible  doctors,  that  are  always 
effecting  sudden  and  surprising  cures,  when  the  patient 
has  been  given  up  by  all  the  regular  physicians;  unless, 
as  is  shrewdly  observed,  the  case  has  been  left  too  long 
before  it  was  put  into  their  hands.  The  doctor's  library 
was  the  talk  and.  marvel  of  the  neighborhood,  I  might 
almost  say  of  the  entire  burgh.  The  good  people  looked 
with  reverence  at  a  man  who  had  read  three  whole 
shelves  full  of  books,  and  some  of  them  too  as  large 
as  a  family  Bible.  There  were  many  disputes  among 
the  members  of  the  little  Lutheran  church,  as  to 
which  was  the  wisest  man,  the  doctor  or  the  dominie. 
Some  of  his  admirers  even  went  so  far  as  to  say,  that 
he  knew  more  than  the  governor  himself — in  a 
word,  it  was  thought  that  there  was  no  end  to  his 
knowledge! 

No  sooner  was  Dolph  received  into  the  doctor's 
family,  than  he  was  put  in  possession  of  the  lodging 
of  his  predecessor.  It  was  a  garret  room  of  a  steep- 
roofed  Dutch  house,  where  the  rain  pattered  on  the 
shingles,  and  the  lightning  gleamed,  and  the  wind  piped 
through  the  crannies  in  stormy  weather;  and  where 
whole  troops  of  hungry  rats,  like  Don  Cossacks,  gal- 
loped about,  in  defiance  of  traps  and  ratsbane. 

He  was  soon  up  to  his  ears  in  medical  studies,  being 
employed,  morning,  noon,  and  night,  in  rolling  pills, 


I20  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

filtering  tinctures,  or  pounding  the  pestle  and  mortar 
in  one  corner  of  the  laboratory;  while  the  doctor  would 
take  his  seat  in  another  corner,  when  he  had  nothing 
else  to  do,  or  expected  visitors,  and  arrayed  in  his 
morning-gown  and  velvet  cap,  would  pore  over  the 
contents  of  some  folio  volume.  It  is  true,  that  the 
regular  thumping  of  Dolph's  pestle,  or,  perhaps,  the 
drowsy  buzzing  of  the  summer  flies,  would  now  and 
then  lull  the  little  man  into  a  slumber;  but  then  his 
spectacles  were  always  wide  awake,  and  studiously 
regarding  the  book. 

There  was  another  personage  in  the  house,  however, 
to  whom  Dolph  was  obliged  to  pay  allegiance.  Though 
a  bachelor,  and  a  man  of  such  great  dignity  and  im- 
portance, the  doctor  was,  like  many  other  wise  men, 
subject  to  petticoat  government.  He  was  completely 
under  the  sway  of  his  housekeeper;  a  spare,  busy, 
fretting  housewife,  in  a  little,  round,  quilted  German 
cap,  with  a  huge  bunch  of  keys  jingling  at  the  girdle 
of  an  exceedingly  long  waist.  Frau  Use  (or  Frow  Ilsy 
as  it  was  pronounced)  had  accompanied  him  in  his 
various  migrations  from  Germany  to  England,  and 
from  England  to  the  province;  managing  his  estab- 
lishment and  himself  too:  ruling  him,  it  is  true,  with  a 
gentle  hand,  but  carrying  a  high  hand  with  all  the 
world  besides.  How  she  had  acquired  such  ascendency 
I  do  not  pretend  to  say.  People,  it  is  true,  did  talk — 
but  have  not  people  been  prone  to  talk  ever  since  the 
world  began.''  Who  can  tell  how  women  generally  con- 
trive to  get  the  upper  hand?  A  husband,  it  is  true, 
may  now  and  then  be  master  in  his  own  house;    but 


Dolph  Heyliger  I2i 

who  ever  knew  a  bachelor  that  was  not  managed  by 
his  housekeeper? 

Indeed,  Frau  Ilsy's  power  was  not  confined  to  the 
doctor's  household.  She  was  one  of  those  prying  gossips 
who  know  every  one's  business  better  than  they  do 
themselves;  and  whose  all-seeing  eyes,  and  all-telling 
tongues,  are  terrors  throughout  a  neighborhood. 

Nothing  of  any  moment  transpired  in  the  world  of 
scandal  of  this  little  burgh,  but  it  was  known  to  Frau 
Ilsy.  She  had  her  crew  of  cronies,  that  were  perpetu- 
ally hurrying  to  her  little  parlor  with  some  precious  bit 
of  news;  nay,  she  would  sometimes  discuss  a  whole 
volume  of  secret  history,  as  she  held  the  street  door 
ajar,  and  gossiped  with  one  of  these  garrulous  cronies 
in  the  very  teeth  of  a  December  blast. 

Between  the  doctor  and  the  housekeeper  it  may 
easily  be  supposed  that  Dolph  had  a  busy  life  of  it. 
As  Frau  Ilsy  kept  the  keys,  and  literally  ruled  the  roost, 
it  was  starvation  to  offend  her,  though  he  found  the 
study  of  her  temper  more  perplexing  even  than  that  of 
medicine.  When  not  busy  in  the  laboratory,  she  kept 
him  running  hither  and  thither  on  her  errands;  and  on 
Sundays  he  was  obliged  to  accompany  her  to  and  from 
church,  and  carry  her  Bible.  Many  a  time  has  the 
poor  varlet  stood  shivering  and  blowing  his  fingers,  or 
holding  his  frostbitten  nose,  in  the  churchyard,  while 
Ilsy  and  her  cronies  were  huddled  together,  wagging 
their  heads,  and  tearing  some  unlucky  character  to 
pieces. 

With  all  his  advantages,  however,  Dolph  made  very 
slow  progress   in   his   art.     This  was   no  fault  of  the 


122  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

doctor's,  certainly,  for  he  took  unwearied  pains  with 
the  lad,  keeping  him  close  to  the  pestle  and  mortar,  or 
on  the  trot  about  town  with  phials  and  pill-boxes;  and 
if  he  ever  flagged  in  his  industry,  which  he  was  rather 
apt  to  do,  the  doctor  would  fly  into  a  passion,  and  ask 
him  if  he  ever  expected  to  learn  his  profession,  unless 
he  applied  himself  closer  to  the  study.  The  fact  is,  he 
still  retained  the  fondness  for  sport  and  mischief  that 
had  marked  his  childhood;  the  habit,  indeed,  had 
strengthened  with  his  years,  and  gained  force  from 
being  thwarted  and  constrained.  He  daily  grew  more 
and  more  untractable,  and  lost  favor  in  the  eyes  both 
of  the  doctor  and  the  housekeeper. 

In  the  meantime  the  doctor  went  on,  waxing  wealthy 
and  renowned.  He  was  famous  for  his  skill  in  manag- 
ing cases  not  laid  down  in  the  books.  He  had  cured 
several  old  women  and  young  girls  of  witchcraft;  a 
terrible  complaint,  and  nearly  as  prevalent  in  the  prov- 
ince in  those  days  as  hydrophobia  is  at  present.  He 
had  even  restored  one  strapping  country  girl  to  perfect 
health,  who  had  gone  so  far  as  to  vomit  crooked  pins 
and  needles;  which  is  considered  a  desperate  stage  of 
the  malady.  It  was  whispered,  also,  that  he  was  pos- 
sessed of  the  art  of  preparing  love  powders;  and  many 
applications  had  he  in  consequence  from  lovesick 
patients  of  both  sexes.  But  all  these  cases  formed  the 
mysterious  part  of  his  practice,  in  which,  according  to 
the  cant  phrase,  "secrecy  and  honor  might  be  depended 
on."  Dolph,  therefore,  was  obliged  to  turn  out  of  the 
study  whenever  such  consultations  occurred,  though 
it  is  said  he  learnt  more  of  the  secrets  of  the  art  at 


Dolph  Heyliger  123 

the  keyhole,  than  by  all  the  rest  of  his  studies  put 
together. 

As  the  doctor  increased  in  wealth,  he  began  to  extend 
his  possessions,  and  to  look  forward,  like  other  great 
men,  to  the  time  when  he  should  retire  to  the  repose  of 
a  countryseat.  For  this  purpose  he  had  purchased  a 
farm,  or,  as  the  Dutch  settlers  called  it,  a  bozverie,  a  few 
miles  from  town.  It  had  been  the  residence  of  a  wealthy 
family,  that  had  returned  some  time  since  to  Holland. 
A  large  mansion  house  stood  in  the  centre  of  it,  very 
much  out  of  repair,  and  which,  in  consequence  of  cer- 
tain reports,  had  received  the  appellation  of  the  Haunted 
House.  Either  from  these  reports,  or  from  its  actual 
dreariness,  the  doctor  found  it  impossible  to  get  a 
tenant;  and,  that  the  place  might  not  fall  to  ruin  be- 
fore he  could  reside  in  it  himself,  he  placed  a  country 
boor,  with  his  family,  in  one  wing,  with  the  privilege 
of  cultivating  the  farm  on  shares. 

The  doctor  now  felt  all  the  dignity  of  a  landholder 
rising  within  him.  He  had  a  little  of  the  German  pride 
of  territory  in  his  composition,  and  almost  looked  upon 
himself  as  owner  of  a  principality.  He  began  to  com- 
plain of  the  fatigue  of  business;  and  was  fond  of  riding 
out  "to  look  at  his  estate."  His  little  expeditions  to 
his  lands  were  attended  with  a  bustle  and  parade  that 
created  a  sensation  throughout  the  neighborhood.  His 
wall-eyed  horse  stood,  stamping  and  whisking  off  the 
flies,  for  a  full  hour  before  the  house.  Then  the  doctor's 
saddlebags  would  be  brought  out  and  adjusted;  then, 
after  a  little  while,  his  cloak  would  be  rolled  up  and 
strapped  to  the  saddle;    then  his  umbrella  would  be 


124  Stones  of  the  Hudson 

buckled  to  the  cloak;  while,  in  the  meantime,  a  group 
of  ragged  boys,  that  observant  class  of  beings,  would 
gather  before  the  door.  At  length  the  doctor  would 
issue  forth,  in  a  pair  of  jack  boots  that  reached  above 
his  knees,  and  a  cocked  hat  flapped  down  in  front.  As 
he  was  a  short,  fat  man,  he  took  some  time  to  mount 
into  the  saddle;  and  when  there,  he  took  some  time  to 
have  the  saddle  and  stirrups  properly  adjusted,  enjoy- 
ing the  wonder  and  admiration  of  the  urchin  crowd. 
Even  after  he  had  set  off,  he  would  pause  in  the  middle 
of  the  street,  or  trot  back  two  or  three  times  to  give 
some  parting  orders;  which  were  answered  by  the 
housekeeper  from  the  door,  or  Dolph  from  the  study, 
or  the  black  cook  from  the  cellar,  or  the  chambermaid 
from  the  garret  window;  and  there  were  generally 
some  last  words  bawled  after  him,  just  as  he  was  turn- 
ing the  corner. 

The  whole  neighborhood  would  be  aroused  by  this 
pomp  and  circumstance.  The  cobbler  would  leave  his 
last;  the  barber  would  thrust  out  his  frizzed  head,  with 
a  comb  sticking  in  it;  a  knot  would  collect  at  the  gro- 
cer's door,  and  the  word  would  be  buzzed  from  one  end 
of  the  street  to  the  other,  "The  doctor's  riding  out  to 
his  countryseat." 

These  were  golden  moments  for  Dolph.  No  sooner 
was  the  doctor  out  of  sight,  than  pestle  and  mortar 
were  abandoned;  the  laboratory  was  left  to  take  care 
of  itself,  and  the  student  was  off  on  some  madcap 
frolic. 

Indeed,  it  must  be  confessed,  the  youngster,  as  he 
grew  up,  seemed  in  a  fair  way  to  fulfil  the  prediction  of 


PollopoFs  Island 


Dolph  Heyliger  125 

the  old  claret-colored  gentleman.  He  was  the  ring- 
leader of  all  holiday  sports  and  midnight  gambols; 
ready  for  all  kinds  of  mischievous  pranks  and  hare- 
brained adventures. 

There  is  nothing  so  troublesome  as  a  hero  on  a  small 
scale,  or,  rather,  a  hero  in  a  small  town.  Dolph  soon 
became  the  abhorrence  of  all  drowsy,  housekeeping  old 
citizens,  who  hated  noise,  and  had  no  relish  for  waggery. 
The  good  dames,  too,  considered  him  as  little  better 
than  a  reprobate,  gathered  their  daughters  under  their 
wings  whenever  he  approached,  and  pointed  him  out 
as  a  warning  to  their  sons.  No  one  seemed  to  hold  him 
in  much  regard,  excepting  the  wild  striplings  of  the 
place,  who  were  captivated  by  his  open-hearted,  daring 
manners,  and  the  negroes,  who  always  look  upon  every 
idle,  do-nothing  youngster  as  a  kind  of  gentleman. 
Even  the  good  Peter  de  Groodt,  who  had  considered 
himself  a  kind  of  patron  of  the  lad,  began  to  despair  of 
him,  and  would  shake  his  head  dubiously,  as  he  listened 
to  a  long  complaint  from  the  housekeeper,  and  sipped 
a  glass  of  her  raspberry  brandy. 

Still  his  mother  was  not  to  be  wearied  out  of  her 
affection  by  all  the  waywardness  of  her  boy,  nor  dis- 
heartened by  the  stories  of  his  mxisdeeds,  with  which  her 
good  friends  were  continually  regaling  her.  She  had, 
it  is  true,  very  little  of  the  pleasure  which  rich  people 
enjoy,  in  always  hearing  their  children  praised;  but 
she  considered  all  this  ill  will  as  a  kind  of  persecution 
which  he  suffered,  and  she  liked  him  better  on  that 
account.  She  saw  him  growing  up  a  fine,  tall,  good 
looking  youngster,   and   she  looked   at  him  with   the 


126  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

secret  pride  of  a  mother's  heart.  It  was  her  great  de- 
sire that  Dolph  should  appear  Hke  a  gentleman,  and 
all  the  money  she  could  save  went  towards  helping  out 
his  pocket  and  his  wardrobe.  She  would  look  out  of 
the  window  after  him,  as  he  sallied  forth  in  his  best 
array,  and  her  heart  would  yearn  with  delight,  and 
once,  when  Peter  de  Groodt,  struck  with  the  young- 
ster's gallant  appearance  on  a  bright  Sunday  morning, 
observed,  "Well,  after  all,  Dolph  does  grow  a  comely 
fellow!"  the  tear  of  pride  started  into  the  mother's  eye; 
"Ah,  neighbor,  neighbor!"  exclaimed  she,  "they  may 
say  what  they  please,  poor  Dolph  will  yet  hold  up  his 
head  with  the  best  of  them." 

Dolph  Heyliger  had  now  nearly  attained  his  one-and- 
twentieth  year,  and  the  term  of  his  medical  studies  was 
just  expiring;  yet  it  must  be  confessed  that  he  knew 
little  more  of  the  profession  than  when  he  first  entered 
the  doctor's  door.  This,  however,  could  not  be  from 
any  want  of  quickness  of  parts,  for  he  showed  amazing 
aptness  in  mastering  other  branches  of  knowledge, 
which  he  could  only  have  studied  at  intervals.  He 
was,  for  instance,  a  sure  marksman,  and  won  all  the 
geese  and  turkeys  at  Christmas  holidays.  He  was  a 
bold  rider;  he  was  famous  for  leaping  and  wrestling; 
he  played  tolerably  on  the  fiddle;  could  swim  like  a 
fish,  and  was  the  best  hand  in  the  whole  place  at  fives 
or  ninepins. 

All  these  accomplishments,  however,  procured  him  no 
favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  doctor,  who  grew  more  and  more 
crabbed  and  intolerant  the  nearer  the  end  of  Dolph's 
apprenticeship  approached.     Frau  Ilsy,  too,  was  for- 


Dolph  Heyliger  127 

ever  finding  some  occasion  to  raise  a  windy  tempest 
about  his  ears;  and  seldom  encountered  him  about  the 
house,  without  a  clatter  of  the  tongue;  so  that  at 
length  the  jingling  of  her  keys,  as  she  approached,  was 
to  Dolph  like  the  ringing  of  the  prompter's  bell,  that 
gives  notice  of  a  theatrical  thunderstorm.  Nothing 
but  the  infinite  good  humor  of  the  heedless  youngster 
enabled  him  to  bear  all  this  domestic  tyranny  without 
open  rebellion.  It  was  evident  that  the  doctor  and  his 
housekeeper  were  preparing  to  beat  the  poor  youth  out 
of  the  nest,  the  moment  his  term  should  have  expired, 
a  shorthand,  mode  which  the  doctor  had  of  providing 
for  useless  disciples. 

Indeed  the  little  man  had  been  rendered  more  than 
usually  irritable  lately,  in  consequence  of  various  cares 
and  vexations  which  his  country  estate  had  brought 
upon  him.  The  doctor  had  been  repeatedly  annoyed 
by  the  rumors  and  tales  which  prevailed  concerning  the 
old  mansion,  and  found  it  difficult  to  prevail  even  upon 
the  countryman  and  his  family  to  remain  there  rent 
free.  Every  time  he  rode  out  to  the  farm  he  was  teased 
by  some  fresh  complaint  of  strange  noises  and  fearful 
sights,  with  which  the  tenants  were  disturbed  at  night; 
and  the  doctor  would  come  home  fretting  and  fuming, 
and  vent  his  spleen  upon  the  whole  household.  It  was 
indeed  a  sore  grievance,  that  affected  him  both  in  pride 
and  purse.  He  was  threatened  with  an  absolute  loss 
of  the  profits  of  his  property,  and  then,  what  a  blow  to 
his  territorial  consequence,  to  be  the  landlord  of  a 
haunted  house. 

It  was  observed,  however,  that  with  all  his  vexation. 


128  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

the  doctor  never  proposed  to  sleep  in  the  house  himself; 
nay,  he  could  never  be  prevailed  upon  to  remain  on  the 
premises  after  dark,  but  made  the  best  of  his  way  for 
town  as  soon  as  the  bats  began  to  flit  about  in  the  twi- 
light. The  fact  was,  the  doctor  had  a  secret  belief  in 
ghosts,  having  passed  the  early  part  of  his  life  in  a 
country  where  they  particularly  abound;  and,  indeed, 
the  story  went  that,  when  a  boy,  he  had  once  seen  the 
devil  upon  the  Hartz  mountains  in  Germany. 

At  length  the  doctor's  vexations  on  this  head  were 
brought  to  a  crisis.  One  morning,  as  he  sat  dozing  over 
a  volume  in  his  study,  he  was  suddenly  startled  from 
his  slumbers  by  the  bustling  in  of  the  housekeeper. 

"Here's  a  fine  to-do!"  cried  she,  as  she  entered  the 
room.  "Here's  Claus  Hopper  come  in,  bag  and  bag- 
gage, from  the  farm,  and  swears  he'll  have  nothing 
more  to  do  with  it.  The  whole  family  have  been  fright- 
ened out  of  their  wits,  for  there's  such  racketing  and 
rummaging  about  the  old  house,  that  they  can't  sleep 
quiet  in  their  beds!" 

"Donner  und  blitzen!"  cried  the  doctor,  impatiently. 
"Will  they  never  have  done  chattering  about  that  house.'' 
What  a  pack  of  fools,  to  let  a  few  rats  and  mice  frighten 
them  out  of  good  quarters." 

"Nay,  nay,"  said  the  housekeeper,  wagging  her  head 
knowingly,  and  piqued  at  having  a  good  ghost  story 
doubted,  "there's  more  in  it  than  rats  and  mice.  All 
the  neighborhood  talks  about  the  house;  and  then  such 
sights  as  have  been  seen  in  it.  Peter  de  Groodt  tells 
me  that  the  family  that  sold  you  the  house,  and  went 
to  Holland,  dropped  several  strange  hints  about  it,  and 


Dolph  Heyliger  129 

said,  'they  wished  you  joy  of  your  bargain;'  and  you 
know  yourself  there's  no  getting  any  family  to  live 
in  it." 

"Peter  de  Groodt's  a  ninny — an  old  woman,"  said 
the  doctor,  peevishly;  "I'll  warrant  he's  been  filling 
these  people's  heads  full  of  stories.  It's  just  like  his 
nonsense  about  the  ghost  that  haunted  the  church 
belfry,  as  an  excuse  for  not  ringing  the  bell  that  cold 
night  when  Harmanus  Brinkerhoff's  house  was  on  fire. 
Send  Claus  to  me." 

Claus  Hopper  now  made  his  appearance:  a  simple 
country  lout,  full  of  awe  at  finding  himself  in  the  very 
study  of  Dr.  Knipperhausen,  and  too  much  embarrassed 
to  enter  into  much  detail  of  the  matters  that  had  caused 
his  alarm.  He  stood  twirling  his  hat  in  one  hand,  rest- 
ing sometimes  on  one  leg,  sometimes  on  the  other,  look- 
ing occasionally  at  the  doctor,  and  now  and  then  steal- 
ing a  fearful  glance  at  the  death's  head  that  seemed 
ogling  him  from  the  top  of  the  clothes-press. 

The  doctor  tried  every  means  to  persuade  him  to 
return  to  the  farm,  but  all  in  vain;  he  maintained  a 
dogged  determination  on  the  subject;  and  at  the  close 
of  every  argument  or  solicitation  would  make  the  same 
brief,  inflexible  reply,  "Ich  kan  nicht,  mynheer."  The 
doctor  was  a  "little  pot,  and  soon  hot;"  his  patience 
was  exhausted  by  these  continual  vexations  about  his 
estate.  The  stubborn  refusal  of  Claus  Hopper  seemed 
to  him  like  flat  rebellion;  his  temper  suddenly  boiled 
over,  and  Claus  was  glad  to  make  a  rapid  retreat  to 
escape  scalding. 

When  the  bumpkin  got  to  the  housekeeper's  room. 


130  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

he  found  Peter  de  Groodt,  and  several  other  true  be- 
lievers, ready  to  receive  him.  Here  he  Indemnified 
himself  for  the  restraint  he  had  suffered  In  the  study, 
and  opened  a  budget  of  stories  about  the  haunted  house 
that  astonished  all  his  hearers.  The  housekeeper  be- 
lieved them  all.  If  it  was  only  to  spite  the  doctor  for 
having  received  her  Intelligence  so  uncourteously. 
Peter  de  Groodt  matched  them  with  many  a  wonderful 
legend  of  the  times  of  the  Dutch  dynasty,  and  of  the 
Devil's  Stepping-stones;  and  of  the  pirate  hanged  at 
Gibbet  Island,  that  continued  to  swing  there  at  night 
long  after  the  gallows  was  taken  down;  and  of  the 
ghost  of  the  unfortunate  Governor  Leisler,  hanged 
for  treason,  which  haunted  the  old  fort  and  the  gov- 
ernment-house. The  gossiping  knot  dispersed,  each 
charged  with  direful  Intelligence.  The  sexton  dis- 
burdened himself  at  a  vestry  meeting  that  was  held 
that  very  day,  and  the  black  cook  forsook  her  kitchen, 
and  spent  half  the  day  at  the  street  pump,  that  gossip- 
ing-place  of  servants,  dealing  forth  the  news  to  all  that 
came  for  water.  In  a  little  time  the  whole  town  was  In 
a  buzz  with  tales  about  the  haunted  house.  Some  said 
that  Glaus  Hopper  had  seen  the  devil,  while  others 
hinted  that  the  house  was  haunted  by  the  ghosts  of 
some  of  the  patients  whom  the  doctor  had  physicked 
out  of  the  world,  and  that  was  the  reason  why  he  did 
not  venture  to  live  in  it  himself. 

All  this  put  the  little  doctor  In  a  terrible  fume.  He 
threatened  vengeance  on  any  one  who  should  affect 
the  value  of  his  property  by  exciting  popular  prejudices. 
He  complained  loudly  of  thus  being  in  a  manner  dis- 


Dolph  Heyliger  131 

possessed  of  his  territories  by  mere  bugbears;  but  he 
secretly  determined  to  have  the  house  exorcised  by  the 
dominie.  Great  was  his  relief,  therefore,  when,  In  the 
midst  of  his  perplexities,  Dolph  stepped  forward  and 
undertook  to  garrison  the  haunted  house.  The  young- 
ster had  been  listening  to  all  the  stories  of  Claus  Hopper 
and  Peter  de  Groodt:  he  was  fond  of  adventure,  he 
loved  the  marvellous,  and  his  imagination  had  become 
quite  excited  by  these  tales  of  wonder.  Besides,  he  had 
led  such  an  uncomfortable  life  at  the  doctor's,  being 
subjected  to  the  intolerable  thraldom  of  early  hours, 
that  he  was  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  having  a  house 
to  himself,  even  though  It  should  be  a  haunted  one. 
His  offer  was  eagerly  accepted,  and  it  was  determined 
he  should  mount  guard  that  very  night.  His  only 
stipulation  was,  that  the  enterprise  should  be  kept 
secret  from  his  mother;  for  he  knew  the  poor  soul  would 
not  sleep  a  wink  If  she  knew  her  son  was  waging  war 
with  the  powers  of  darkness. 

When  night  came  on  he  set  out  on  this  perilous  ex- 
pedition. The  old  black  cook,  his  only  friend  in  the 
household,  had  provided  him  with  a  little  mess  for 
supper,  and  a  rushlight;  and  she  tied  round  his  neck 
an  amulet,  given  her  by  an  African  conjurer,  as  a  charm 
against  evil  spirits.  Dolph  was  escorted  on  his  way  by 
the  doctor  and  Peter  de  Groodt,  who  had  agreed  to 
accompany  him  to  the  house,  and  see  him  safe  lodged. 
The  night  was  overcast,  and  it  was  very  dark  when  they 
arrived  at  the  grounds  which  surrounded  the  mansion. 
The  sexton  led  the  way  with  a  lantern.  As  they  walked 
along  the  avenue  of  acacias,  the  fitful  light,  catching 


132  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

from  bush  to  bush,  and  tree  to  tree,  often  startled  the 
doughty  Peter,  and  made  him  fall  back  upon  his  fol- 
lowers; and  the  doctor  grappled  still  closer  hold  of 
Dolph's  arm,  observing  that  the  ground  was  very  slip- 
pery and  uneven.  At  one  time  they  were  nearly  put 
to  total  rout  by  a  bat,  which  came  flitting  about  the 
lantern;  and  the  notes  of  the  insects  from  the  trees, 
and  the  frogs  from  a  neighboring  pond,  formed  a  most 
drowsy  and  doleful  concert. 

The  front  door  of  the  mansion  opened  with  a  grating 
sound,  that  made  the  doctor  turn  pale.  They  entered 
a  tolerably  large  hall,  such  as  is  common  in  American 
country-houses,  and  which  serves  for  a  sitting  room  in 
warm  weather.  From  this  they  went  up  a  wide  stair- 
case, that  groaned  and  creaked  as  they  trod,  every  step 
making  its  particular  note,  like  the  key  of  a  harpsichord. 
This  led  to  another  hall  on  the  second  story,  whence 
they  entered  the  room  where  Dolph  was  to  sleep.  It 
was  large,  and  scantily  furnished;  the  shutters  were 
closed;  but  as  they  were  much  broken,  there  was  no 
want  of  a  circulation  of  air.  It  appeared  to  have  been 
that  sacred  chamber,  known  among  Dutch  housewives 
by  the  name  of  "the  best  bedroom;"  which  is  the  best 
furnished  room  in  the  house,  but  in  which  scarce  any- 
body is  ever  permitted  to  sleep.  Its  splendor,  however, 
was  all  at  an  end.  There  were  a  few  broken  articles  of 
furniture  about  the  room,  and  in  the  centre  stood  a 
heavy  deal  table  and  a  large  armchair,  both  of  which 
had  the  look  of  being  coeval  with  the  mansion.  The 
fireplace  was  wide,  and  had  been  faced  with  Dutch 
tiles,  representing  Scripture  stories;    but  some  of  them 


1 


Albanx 


Dolph  Heyliger  133 

had  fallen  out  of  their  places,  and  lay  shattered  about 
the  hearth.  The  sexton  lit  the  rushlight;  and  the 
doctor,  looking  fearfully  about  the  room,  was  just 
exhorting  Dolph  to  be  of  good  cheer,  and  to  pluck  up  a 
stout  heart,  when  a  noise  in  the  chimney,  like  voices 
and  struggling,  struck  a  sudden  panic  into  the  sexton. 
He  took  to  his  heels  with  the  lantern;  the  doctor  fol- 
lowed hard  after  him;  the  stairs  groaned  and  creaked 
as  they  hurried  down,  increasing  their  agitation  and 
speed  by  its  noises.  The  front  door  slammed  after 
them;  and  Dolph  heard  them  scrabbling  down  the 
avenue,  till  the  sound  of  their  feet  was  lost  in  the  dis- 
tance. That  he  did  not  join  in  this  precipitate  retreat 
might  have  been  owing  to  his  possessing  a  little  more 
courage  than  his  companions,  or  perhaps  that  he  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  cause  of  their  dismay,  in  a  nest 
of  chimney  swallows,  that  came  tumbling  down  into 
the  fireplace. 

Being  now  left  to  himself,  he  secured  the  front  door  by 
a  strong  bolt  and  bar;  and  having  seen  that  the  other 
entrances  were  fastened,  returned  to  his  desolate  cham- 
ber. Having  made  his  supper  from  the  basket  which 
the  good  old  cook  had  provided,  he  locked  the  chamber 
door,  and  retired  to  rest  on  a  mattress  in  one  corner. 
The  night  was  calm  and  still;  and  nothing  broke  upon 
the  profound  quiet,  but  the  lonely  chirping  of  a  cricket 
from  the  chimney  of  a  distant  chamber.  The  rushlight, 
which  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  deal  table,  shed  a  feeble 
yellow  ray,  dimly  illuminating  the  chamber,  and  mak- 
ing uncouth  shapes  and  shadows  on  the  walls,  from  the 
clothes  which  Dolph  had  thrown  over  a  chair. 


134  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

With  all  his  boldness  of  heart,  there  was  something 
subduing  In  this  desolate  scene;  and  he  felt  his  spirits 
flag  within  him,  as  he  lay  on  his  hard  bed  and  gazed 
about  the  room.  He  was  turning  over  in  his  mind  his 
idle  habits,  his  doubtful  prospects,  and  now  and  then 
heaving  a  heavy  sigh,  as  he  thought  on  his  poor  old 
mother;  for  there  is  nothing  like  the  silence  and  lone- 
liness of  night  to  bring  dark  shadows  over  the  brightest 
mind.  By  and  by  he  thought  he  heard  a  sound  as  of 
some  one  walking  below  stairs.  He  listened,  and  dis- 
tinctly heard  a  step  on  the  great  staircase.  It  ap- 
proached solemnly  and  slowly,  tramp — tramp — tramp! 
It  was  evidently  the  tread  of  some  heavy  personage; 
and  yet  how  could  he  have  got  into  the  house  without 
making  a  noise.'*  He  had  examined  all  the  fastenings, 
and  was  certain  that  every  entrance  was  secure.  Still 
the  steps  advanced,  tramp — tramp — tramp!  It  was 
evident  that  the  person  approaching  could  not  be  a 
robber,  the  step  was  too  loud  and  deliberate;  a  robber 
would  either  be  stealthy  or  precipitate.  And  now  the 
footsteps  had  ascended  the  staircase;  they  were  slowly 
advancing  along  the  passage,  resounding  through  the 
silent  and  empty  apartments.  The  very  cricket  had 
ceased  its  melancholy  note,  and  nothing  interrupted 
their  awful  distinctness.  The  door,  which  had  been 
locked  on  the  inside,  slowly  sprang  open,  as  if  self- 
moved.  The  footsteps  entered  the  room;  but  no  one 
was  to  be  seen.  They  passed  slowly  and  audibly  across 
it,  tramp — tramp — tramp!  but  whatever  made  the 
sound  was  invisible.  Dolph  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  stared 
about  him;    he  could  see  to  every  part  of  the  dimly- 


Dolph  Heyliger  135 

lighted  chamber;  all  was  vacant;  yet  still  he  heard 
those  mysterious  footsteps,  solemnly  walking  about 
the  chamber.  They  ceased,  and  all  was  dead  silence. 
There  was  something  more  appalling  in  this  invisible 
visitation,  than  there  would  have  been  in  anything 
that  addressed  itself  to  the  eyesight.  It  was  awfully 
vague  and  indefinite.  He  felt  his  heart  beat  against 
his  ribs;  a  cold  sweat  broke  out  upon  his  forehead;  he 
lay  for  some  time  in  a  state  of  violent  agitation;  noth- 
ing, however,  occurred  to  increase  his  alarm.  His  light 
gradually  burnt  down  into  the  socket,  and  he  fell  asleep. 
When  he  awoke  it  was  broad  daylight;  the  sun  was 
peering  through  the  cracks  of  the  window  shutters,  and 
the  birds  were  merrily  singing  about  the  house.  The 
bright  cheery  day  soon  put  to  flight  all  the  terrors  of 
the  preceding  night.  Dolph  laughed,  or  rather  tried 
to  laugh,  at  all  that  had  passed,  and  endeavored  to  per- 
suade himself  that  it  was  a  mere  freak  of  the  imagina- 
tion, conjured  up  by  the  stories  he  had  heard;  but  he 
was  a  little  puzzled  to  find  the  door  of  his  room  locked 
on  the  inside,  notwithstanding  that  he  had  positively 
seen  it  swing  open  as  the  footsteps  had  entered.  He 
returned  to  town  in  a  state  of  considerable  perplexity; 
but  he  determined  to  say  nothing  on  the  subject,  until 
his  doubts  were  either  confirmed  or  removed  by  an- 
other night's  watching.  His  silence  was  a  grievous 
disappointment  to  the  gossips  who  had  gathered  at  the 
doctor's  mansion.  They  had  prepared  their  minds  to 
hear  direful  tales,  and  were  almost  in  a  rage  at  being 
assured  he  had  nothing  to  relate. 

The  next  night,  then,  Dolph  repeated  his  vigil.     He 


136  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

now  entered  the  house  with  some  trepidation.  He  was 
particular  in  examining  the  fastenings  of  all  the  doors, 
and  securing  them  well.  He  locked  the  door  of  his 
chamber,  and  placed  a  chair  against  it;  then  having 
dispatched  his  supper,  he  threw  himself  on  his  mattress 
and  endeavored  to  sleep.  It  was  all  in  vain;  a  thousand 
crowding  fancies  kept  him  waking.  The  time  slowly 
dragged  on,  as  if  minutes  were  spinning  themselves  out 
into  hours.  As  the  night  advanced,  he  grew  more  and 
more  nervous;  and  he  almost  started  from  his  couch 
when  he  heard  the  mysterious  footstep  again  on  the 
staircase.  Up  it  came,  as  before,  solemnly  and  slowly, 
tramp — tramp — tramp!  It  approached  along  the  pas- 
sage; the  door  again  swung  open,  as  if  there  had  been 
neither  lock  nor  impediment,  and  a  strange  looking 
figure  stalked  into  the  room.  It  was  an  elderly  man, 
large  and  robust,  clothed  in  the  old  Flemish  fashion. 
He  had  on  a  kind  of  short  cloak,  with  a  garment  under 
it,  belted  round  the  waist;  trunk  hose,  with  great 
bunches  or  bows  at  the  knees;  and  a  pair  of  russet  boots 
very  large  at  top,  and  standing  widely  from  his  legs. 
His  hat  was  broad  and  slouched,  with  a  feather  trailing 
over  one  side.  His  iron-grey  hair  hung  in  thick  masses 
on  his  neck;  and  he  had  a  short  grizzled  beard.  He 
walked  slowly  round  the  room,  as  if  examining  that  all 
was  safe;  then,  hanging  his  hat  on  a  peg  beside  the 
door,  he  sat  down  in  the  elbow  chair,  and,  leaning  his 
elbow  on  the  tabic,  fixed  his  eyes  on  Dolph  with  an 
unmoving  and  deadened  stare. 

Dolph  was  not  naturally  a  coward;    but  he  had  been 
brought  up  in  an  implicit  belief  in  ghosts  and  goblins. 


Dolph  Heyliger  137 

A  thousand  stories  came  swarming  to  his  mind  that  he 
had  heard  about  this  building;  and  as  he  looked  at  this 
strange  personage,  with  his  uncouth  garb,  his  pale 
visage,  his  grizzly  beard,  and  his  fixed,  staring,  fish- 
like  eye,  his  teeth  began  to  chatter,  his  hair  to  rise  on 
his  head,  and  a  cold  sweat  to  break  out  all  over  his 
body.  How  long  he  remained  In  this  situation  he  could 
not  tell,  for  he  was  like  one  fascinated.  He  could  not 
take  his  gaze  off  from  the  spectre;  but  lay  staring  at 
him,  with  his  whole  Intellect  absorbed  in  the  contempla- 
tion. The  old  man  remained  seated  behind  the  table, 
without  stirring,  or  turning  an  eye,  always  keeping  a 
dead,  steady  glare  upon  Dolph.  At  length  the  house- 
hold cock,  from  a  neighboring  farm,  clapped  his  wings, 
and  gave  a  loud  cheerful  crow  that  rang  over  the  fields. 
At  the  sound  the  old  man  slowly  rose  and  took  down 
his  hat  from  the  peg;  the  door  opened,  and  closed  after 
him;  he  was  heard  to  go  slowly  down  the  staircase, 
tramp — tramp— tramp! — and  when  he  had  got  to  the 
bottom,  all  was  again  silent.  Dolph  lay  and  listened 
earnestly;  counted  every  footfall;  listened,  and  lis- 
tened, if  the  steps  should  return,  until,  exhausted  by 
watching  and  agitation,  he  fell  into  a  troubled  sleep. 

Daylight  again  brought  fresh  courage  and  assurance. 
He  would  fain  have  considered  all  that  had  passed  as 
a  mere  dream;  yet  there  stood  the  chair  in  which  the 
unknown  had  seated  himself;  there  was  the  table  on 
which  he  had  leaned;  there  was  the  peg  on  which  he 
had  hung  his  hat;  and  there  was  the  door,  locked 
precisely  as  he  himself  had  locked  It,  with  the  chair 
placed  against  It.     He  hastened  down  stairs,  and  ex- 


138  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

amined  the  doors  and  windows;  all  were  exactly  In  the 
same  state  In  which  he  had  left  them,  and  there  was  no 
apparent  way  by  which  any  being  could  have  entered 
and  left  the  house,  without  leaving  some  trace  behind. 
"Pooh!"  said  Dolph  to  himself,  "it  was  all  a  dream:" 
— but  it  would  not  do;  the  more  he  endeavored  to 
shake  the  scene  off  from  his  mind,  the  more  it  haunted 
him. 

Though  he  persisted  in  a  strict  silence  as  to  all  that 
he  had  seen  or  heard,  yet  his  looks  betrayed  the  un- 
comfortable night  that  he  had  passed.  It  was  evident 
that  there  was  something  wonderful  hidden  under  this 
mysterious  reserve.  The  doctor  took  him  into  the 
study,  locked  the  door,  and  sought  to  have  a  full  and 
confidential  communication;  but  he  could  get  nothing 
out  of  him.  Frau  Ilsy  took  him  aside  into  the  pantry, 
but  to  as  little  purpose;  and  Peter  de  Groodt  held  him 
by  the  button  for  a  full  hour,  in  the  churchyard,  the 
very  place  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  a  ghost  story,  but 
came  off  not  a  whit  wiser  than  the  rest.  It  is  always 
the  case,  however,  that  one  truth  concealed  makes  a 
dozen  current  lies.  It  is  like  a  guinea  locked  up  in  a 
bank,  that  has  a  dozen  paper  representatives.  Before 
the  day  was  over,  the  neighborhood  was  full  of  reports. 
Some  said  that  Dolph  Heyliger  watched  in  the  haunted 
house,  with  pistols  loaded  with  silver  bullets;  others, 
that  he  had  a  long  talk  with  a  spectre  without  a  head; 
others  that  Doctor  Knipperhausen  and  the  sexton  had 
been  hunted  down  the  Bowery  lane,  and  quite  into 
town  by  a  legion  of  the  ghosts  of  their  customers. 
Some  shook  their  heads,  and  thought  it  a  shame  the 


Dolph  Heyliger  139 

doctor  should  put  Dolph  to  pass  the  night  alone  in  that 
dismal  house,  where  he  might  be  spirited  away,  no  one 
knew  whither,  while  others  observed,  with  a  shrug, 
that  if  the  devil  did  carry  off  the  youngster,  it  would 
be  but  taking  his  own. 

These  rumors  at  length  reached  the  ears  of  the  good 
Dame  Heyliger,  and,  as  may  be  supposed,  threw  her 
into  a  terrible  alarm.  For  her  son  to  have  opposed 
himself  to  danger  from  living  foes,  would  have  been 
nothing  so  dreadful  in  her  eyes,  as  to  dare  alone  the 
terrors  of  the  haunted  house.  She  hastened  to  the 
doctor's,  and  passed  a  great  part  of  the  day  in  attempt- 
ing to  dissuade  Dolph  from  repeating  his  vigil;  she  told 
him  a  score  of  tales,  which  her  gossiping  friends  had 
just  related  to  her,  of  persons  who  had  been  carried  off, 
when  watching  alone  in  old  ruinous  houses.  It  was  all 
to  no  effect.  Dolph's  pride,  as  well  as  curiosity,  was 
piqued.  He  endeavored  to  calm  the  apprehensions  of 
his  mother,  and  to  assure  her  that  there  was  no  truth 
in  all  the  rumors  she  had  heard;  she  looked  at  him 
dubiously,  and  shook  her  head;  but  finding  his  deter- 
mination was  not  to  be  shaken,  she  brought  him  a  little 
thick  Dutch  Bible,  with  brass  clasps,  to  take  with  him 
as  a  sword  wherewith  to  fight  the  powers  of  darkness; 
and,  lest  that  might  not  be  sufficient,  the  housekeeper 
gave  him  the  Heidelberg  catechism  by  way  of  dagger. 

The  next  night,  therefore,  Dolph  took  up  his  quarters 
for  the  third  time  In  the  old  mansion.  Whether  dream 
or  not,  the  same  thing  was  repeated.  Towards  mid- 
night, when  everything  was  still,  the  same  sound  echoed 
through  the  empty  halls — tramp — tramp — tramp !    The 


140  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

stairs  were  again  ascended — the  door  again  swung 
open — the  old  man  entered,  walked  round  the  room, 
hung  up  his  hat,  and  seated  himself  by  the  table.  The 
same  fear  and  trembling  came  over  poor  Dolph,  though 
not  in  so  violent  a  degree.  He  lay  in  the  same  way, 
motionless  and  fascinated,  staring  at  the  figure,  which 
regarded  him  as  before,  with  a  dead,  fixed,  chilling 
gaze.  In  this  way  they  remained  for  a  long  time,  till, 
by  degrees,  Dolph's  courage  began  gradually  to  revive. 
Whether  alive  or  dead,  this  being  had  certainly  some 
object  in  his  visitation,  and  he  recollected  to  have  heard 
it  said,  spirits  have  no  power  to  speak  until  spoken  to. 
Summoning  up  resolution,  therefore,  and  making  two 
or  three  attempts,  before  he  could  get  his  parched 
tongue  in  motion,  he  addressed  the  unknown  in  the 
most  solemn  form  of  adjuration,  and  demanded  to 
know  what  was  the  motive  of  his  visit. 

No  sooner  had  he  finished,  than  the  old  man  rose, 
took  down  his  hat,  the  door  opened,  and  he  went  out, 
looking  back  upon  Dolph  just  as  he  crossed  the  thresh- 
old, as  if  expecting  him  to  follow.  The  youngster  did 
not  hesitate  an  instant.  He  took  the  candle  in  his  hand, 
and  the  Bible  under  his  arm,  and  obeyed  the  tacit  invi- 
tation. The  candle  emitted  a  feeble,  uncertain  ray, 
but  still  he  could  see  the  figure  before  him,  slowly  de- 
scend the  stairs.  He  followed,  trembling.  When  it 
had  reached  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  it  turned  through 
the  hall  towards  the  back  door  of  the  mansion.  Dolph 
held  the  light  over  the  balustrades,  but,  in  his  eagerness 
to  catch  a  sight  of  the  unknown,  he  flared  his  feeble 
taper  so  suddenly,  that  it  went  out.     Still  there  was 


Dolph  Heyliger  141 

sufficient  light  from  the  pale  moonbeams,  that  fell 
through  a  narrow  window,  to  give  him  an  indistinct 
view  of  the  figure,  near  the  door.  He  followed,  there- 
fore, down  stairs,  and  turned  towards  the  place;  but 
when  he  arrived  there,  the  unknown  had  disappeared. 
The  door  remained  fast  barred  and  bolted;  there  was 
no  other  mode  of  exit,  yet  the  being,  whatever  he  might 
be,  was  gone.  He  unfastened  the  door,  and  looked  out 
into  the  fields.  It  was  a  hazy,  moonlight  night,  so  that 
the  eye  could  distinguish  objects  at  some  distance.  He 
thought  he  saw  the  unknown  In  a  footpath  which  led 
from  the  door.  He  was  not  mistaken;  but  how  had  he 
got  out  of  the  house  .^  He  did  not  pause  to  think,  but 
followed  on.  The  old  man  proceeded  at  a  measured 
pace,  without  looking  about  him,  his  footsteps  sounding 
on  the  hard  ground.  He  passed  through  the  orchard 
of  apple  trees,  always  keeping  the  footpath.  It  led  to 
a  well,  situated  in  a  little  hollow,  which  had  supplied 
the  farm  with  water.  Just  at  this  well  Dolph  lost  sight 
of  him.  He  rubbed  his  eyes  and  looked  again,  but 
nothing  was  to  be  seen  of  the  unknown.  He  reached 
the  well,  but  nobody  was  there.  All  the  surrounding 
ground  was  open  and  clear;  there  was  no  bush  or 
hiding-place.  He  looked  down  the  well,  and  saw,  at 
a  great  depth,  the  reflection  of  the  sky  In  the  still  water. 
After  remaining  here  for  some  time,  without  seeing  or 
hearing  anything  more  of  his  mysterious  conductor, 
he  returned  to  the  house,  full  of  awe  and  wonder.  He 
bolted  the  door,  groped  his  way  back  to  bed,  and  it  was 
long  before  he  could  compose  himself  to  sleep. 

His  dreams  were  strange  and  troubled.    He  thought 


142  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

he  was  following  the  old  man  along  the  side  of  a  great 
river,  until  they  came  to  a  vessel  on  the  point  of  sailing, 
and  that  his  conductor  led  him  on  board  and  vanished. 
He  remembered  the  commander  of  the  vessel,  a  short 
swarthy  man,  with  crisped  black  hair,  blind  of  one  eye, 
and  lame  of  one  leg;  but  the  rest  of  his  dream  was  very 
confused.  Sometimes  he  was  sailing,  sometimes  on 
shore;  now  amidst  storms  and  tempests,  and  now 
wandering  quietly  in  unknown  streets.  The  figure  of 
the  old  man  was  strangely  mingled  up  with  the  inci- 
dents of  the  dream;  and  the  whole  distinctly  wound 
up  by  his  finding  himself  on  board  of  the  vessel  again, 
returning  home,  with  a  great  bag  of  money. 

When  he  awoke,  the  grey,  cool  light  of  dawn  was 
streaking  the  horizon,  and  the  cocks  passing  the  reveille 
from  farm  to  farm,  throughout  the  country.  He  rose 
more  harassed  and  perplexed  than  ever.  He  was  singu- 
larly confounded  by  all, that  he  had  seen  and  dreamt, 
and  began  to  doubt  whether  his  mind  was  not  affected, 
and  whether  all  that  was  passing  in  his  thoughts  might 
not  be  mere  feverish  fantasy.  In  his  present  state  of 
mind,  he  did  not  feel  disposed  to  return  immediately 
to  the  doctor's,  and  undergo  the  cross-questioning  of 
the  household.  He  made  a  scanty  breakfast,  therefore, 
on  the  remains  of  the  last  night's  provisions,  and  then 
wandered  out  into  the  fields  to  meditate  on  all  that  had 
befallen  him.  Lost  in  thought,  he  rambled  about, 
gradually  approaching  the  town,  until  the  morning  was 
far  advanced,  when  he  was  roused  by  a  hurry  and 
bustle  around  him.  He  found  himself  near  the  water's 
edge,  in  a  throng  of  people,  hurrying  to  a  pier,  where 


The  Catskills 


Dolph  Heyliger  143 

was  a  vessel  ready  to  make  sail.  He  was  unconsciously 
carried  along  by  the  impulse  of  the  crowd,  and  found 
that  it  was  a  sloop,  on  the  point  of  sailing  up  the  Hudson 
to  Albany.  There  was  much  leave-taking  and  kissing 
of  old  women  and  children,  and  great  activity  in  carry- 
ing on  board  baskets  of  bread  and  cakes,  and  provisions 
of  all  kinds,  notwithstanding  the  mighty  joints  of  meat 
that  dangled  over  the  stern;  for  a  voyage  to  Albany 
was  an  expedition  of  great  moment  in  those  days.  The 
commander  of  the  sloop  was  hurrying  about,  and  giving 
a  world  of  orders,  which  were  not  very  strictly  attended 
to,  one  man  being  busy  in  lighting  his  pipe,  and  another 
in  sharpening  his  snickersnee. 

The  appearance  of  the  commander  suddenly  caught 
Dolph's  attention.  He  was  short  and  swarthy,  with 
crisped  black  hair;  blind  of  one  eye  and  lame  of  one 
leg — the  very  commander  that  he  had  seen  in  his  dream! 
Surprised  and  aroused,  he  considered  the  scene  more 
attentively,  and  recalled  still  further  traces  of  his  dream: 
the  appearance  of  the  vessel,  of  the  river,  and  of  a 
variety  of  other  objects,  accorded  with  the  imperfect 
images  vaguely  rising  to  recollection. 

As  he  stood  musing  on  these  circumstances,  the  cap- 
tain suddenly  called  out  to  him  in  Dutch,  "Step  on 
board,  young  man,  or  you'll  be  left  behind!"  He  was 
startled  by  the  summons;  he  saw  that  the  sloop  was 
cast  loose,  and  was  actually  moving  from  the  pier;  it 
seemed  as  if  he  was  actuated  by  some  irresistible  im- 
pulse; he  sprang  upon  the  deck,  and  the  next  moment 
the  sloop  was  hurried  off  by  the  wind  and  tide.  Dolph's 
thoughts  and  feelings  were  all  in  tumult  and  confusion. 


144  Stones  of  the  Hudson 

He  had  been  strongly  worked  upon  by  the  events  which 
had  recently  befallen  him,  and  could  not  but  think  there 
was  some  connection  between  his  present  situation  and 
his  last  night's  dream.  He  felt  as  if  under  supernatural 
influence;  and  tried  to  assure  himself  with  an  old  and 
favorite  maxim  of  his,  that  "one  way  or  the  other,  all 
would  turn  out  for  the  best."  For  a  moment,  the  indig- 
nation of  the  doctor  at  his  departure,  without  leave, 
passed  across  his  mind,  but  that  was  matter  of  little 
moment;  then  he  thought  of  the  distress  of  his  mother 
at  his  strange  disappearance,  and  the  idea  gave  him  a 
sudden  pang;  he  would  have  entreated  to  be  put  on 
shore;  but  he  knew  with  such  wind  and  tide  the  en- 
treaty would  have  been  in  vain.  Then  the  inspiring 
love  of  novelty  and  adventure  came  rushing  in  full  tide 
through  his  bosom;  he  felt  himself  launched  strangely 
and  suddenly  on  the  world,  and  under  full  way  to  ex- 
plore the  regions  of  wonder  that  lay  up  this  mighty 
river,  and  beyond  those  blue  mountains  which  had 
bounded  his  horizon  since  childhood.  While  he  was 
lost  in  this  whirl  of  thought,  the  sails  strained  to  the 
breeze;  the  shores  seemed  to  hurry  away  behind  him; 
and,  before  he  perfectly  recovered  his  self-possession, 
the  sloop  was  ploughing  her  way  past  Spiting  Devil  and 
Yonkcrs,  and  the  tallest  chimney  of  the  Alanhattoes 
had  faded  from  his  sight. 

I  have  said  that  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson  in  those 
days  was  an  undertaking  of  some  moment;  indeed,  it 
was  as  much  thought  of  as  a  voyage  to  Europe  is  at 
present.  The  sloops  were  often  many  days  on  the  way; 
the  cautious   navigators   taking  in   sail  when   it  blew 


Dolph  Heyliger  145 

fresh,  and  coming  to  anchor  at  night;  and  stopping  to 
send  the  boat  ashore  for  milk  for  tea;  without  which 
it  was  impossible  for  the  worthy  old  lady  passengers  to 
subsist.  And  there  were  the  much-talked-of  perils  of 
the  Tappan  Zee,  and  the  Highlands.  In  short,  a  pru- 
dent Dutch  burgher  would  talk  of  such  a  voyage  for 
months,  and  even  years,  beforehand;  and  never  under- 
took it  without  putting  his  affairs  in  order,  making  his 
will,  and  having  prayers  said  for  him  in  the  Low  Dutch 
churches. 

In  the  course  of  such  a  voyage,  therefore,  Dolph  was 
satisfied  he  would  have  time  enough  to  reflect,  and  to 
make  up  his  mind  as  to  what  he  should  do  when  he 
arrived  at  Albany.  The  captain,  with  his  blind  eye 
and  lame  leg,  would,  it  is  true,  bring  his  strange  dream 
to  mind,  and  perplex  him  sadly  for  a  few  moments;  but 
of  late  his  life  had  been  made  up  so  much  of  dreams  and 
realities,  his  nights  and  days  had  been  so  jumbled  to- 
gether, that  he  seemed  to  be  moving  continually  in  a 
delusion.  There  is  always,  however,  a  kind  of  vagabond 
consolation  in  a  man's  having  nothing  in  this  world 
to  lose;  with  this  Dolph  comforted  his  heart,  and 
determined  to  make  the  most  of  the  present  enjoy- 
ment. 

In  the  second  day  of  the  voyage  they  came  to  the 
Highlands.  It  was  the  latter  part  of  a  calm,  sultry  day, 
that  they  floated  gently  with  the  tide  between  these 
stern  mountains.  There  was  that  perfect  quiet  which 
prevails  over  nature  in  the  languor  of  summer  heat; 
the  turning  of  a  plank,  or  the  accidental  falling  of  an 
oar  on  deck,  was  echoed  from  the  mountain-side,  and 


146  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

reverberated  along  the  shores;  and  if  by  chance  the 
captain  gave  a  shout  of  command,  there  were  airy 
tongues  which  mocked  it  from  every  cHff. 

Dolph  gazed  about  him  in  mute  delight  and  wonder 
at  these  scenes  of  nature's  magnificence.  To  the  left 
the  Dunderberg  reared  its  woody  precipices,  height 
over  height,  forest  over  forest,  away  into  the  deep  sum- 
mer sky.  To  the  right  strutted  forth  the  bold  promon- 
tory of  Anthony's  Nose,  with  a  solitary  eagle  wheeling 
about  it;  while  beyond,  mountain  succeeded  to  moun- 
tain, until  they  seemed  to  lock  their  arms  together,  and 
confine  this  mighty  river  in  their  embraces.  There  was 
a  feeling  of  quiet  luxury  in  gazing  at  the  broad,  green 
bosoms  here  and  there  scooped  out  among  the  preci- 
pices; or  at  woodlands  high  in  air,  nodding  over  the 
edge  of  some  beetling  bluff",  and  their  foliage  all  trans- 
parent in  the  yellow  sunshine. 

In  the  midst  of  his  admiration,  Dolph  remarked  a 
pile  of  bright,  snowy  clouds  peering  above  the  western 
heights.  It  was  succeeded  by  another,  and  another, 
each  seemingly  pushing  onwards  its  predecessor,  and 
towering,  with  dazzling  brilliancy,  in  the  deep  blue 
atmosphere:  and  now  muttering  peals  of  thunder  were 
faintly  heard  rolling  behind  the  mountains.  The  river, 
hitherto  still  and  glassy,  reflecting  pictures  of  the  sky 
and  land,  now  showing  a  dark  ripple  at  a  distance,  as 
the  breeze  came  creeping  up  it.  The  fish-hawks  wheeled 
and  screamed,  and  sought  their  nests  on  the  high  dry 
trees;  the  crows  flew  clamorously  to  the  crevices  of  the 
rocks,  and  all  nature  seemed'conscious  of  the  approach- 
ing thundergust. 


At  the  end  of  the  day 


I 


Dolph  Heyliger  147 

The  clouds  now  rolled  in  volumes  over  the  mountain- 
tops;  their  summits  still  bright  and  snowy,  but  the 
lower  parts  of  an  inky  blackness.  The  rain  began  to 
patter  down  in  broad  and  scattered  drops;  the  wind 
freshened,  and  curled  up  the  waves;  at  length  it  seemed 
as  if  the  bellying  clouds  were  torn  open  by  the  mountain- 
tops,  and  complete  torrents  of  rain  came  rattling  down. 
The  lightning  leaped  from  cloud  to  cloud,  and  streamed 
quivering  against  the  rocks,  splitting  and  rending  the 
stoutest  forest  trees.  The  thunder  burst  in  tremendous 
explosions;  the  peals  were  echoed  from  mountain  to 
mountain;  they  crashed  upon  Dunderberg,  and  rolled 
up  the  long  defile  of  the  Highlands,  each  headland  mak- 
ing a  new  echo,  until  old  Bull  Hill  seemed  to  bellow 
back  the  storm. 

For  a  time  the  scudding  rack  and  mist,  and  the 
sheeted  rain  almost  hid  the  landscape  from  the  sight. 
There  was  a  fearful  gloom,  illuminated  still  more  fear- 
fully by  the  streams  of  lightning  which  glittered  among 
the  raindrops.  Never  had  Dolph  beheld  such  an  abso- 
lute warring  of  the  elements;  it  seemed  as  if  the  storm 
was  tearing  and  rending  its  way  through  this  moun- 
tain defile,  and  had  brought  all  the  artillery  of  heaven 
into  action. 

The  vessel  was  hurried  on  by  the  increasing  wind, 
until  she  came  to  where  the  river  makes  a  sudden  bend, 
the  only  one  in  the  whole  course  of  its  majestic  career.* 
Just  as  they  turned  the  point,  a  violent  flaw  of  wind 
came  sweeping  down  a  mountain  gully,  bending  the 
forest  before  it,  and,  in  a  moment,  lashing  up  the  river 

*This  must  have  been  the  bend  at  West  Point. 


148  Stones  of  the  Hudson 

into  white  froth  and  foam.  The  captain  saw  the  danger, 
and  cried  out  to  lower  the  sail.  Before  the  order  could  be 
obeyed,  the  flaw  struck  the  sloop,  and  threw  her  on  her 
beam  ends.  Everything  now  was  fright  and  confusion; 
the  flapping  of  the  sails,  the  whistling  and  rushing  of 
the  wind,  the  bawling  of  the  captain  and  crew,  the 
shrieking  of  the  passengers,  all  mingled  with  the  rolling 
and  bellowing  of  the  thunder.  In  the  midst  of  the 
uproar  the  sloop  righted;  at  the  same  time  the  main- 
sail shifted,  the  boom  came  sweeping  the  quarter-deck, 
and  Dolph,  who  was  gazing  unguardedly  at  the  clouds, 
found  himself,  in  a  moment,  floundering  in  the  river. 

For  once  in  his  life  one  of  his  idle  accomplishments 
was  of  use  to  him.  The  many  truant  hours  he  had 
devoted  to  sporting  in  the  Hudson  had  made  him  an 
expert  swimmer;  yet  with  all  his  strength  and  skill,  he 
found  great  difficulty  in  reaching  the  shore.  His  dis- 
appearance from  the  deck  had  not  been  noticed  by  the 
crew,  who  were  all  occupied  by  their  own  danger.  The 
sloop  was  driven  along  with  inconceivable  rapidity. 
She  had  hard  work  to  weather  a  long  promontory  on 
the  eastern  shore,  round  which  the  river  turned,  and 
which  completely  shut  her  from  Dolph's  view. 

It  was  on  a  point  of  the  western  shore  that  he  landed, 
and,  scrambling  up  the  rocks,  threw  himself,  faint  and 
exhausted,  at  the  foot  of  a  tree.  By  degrees  the  thunder- 
gust  passed  over.  The  clouds  rolled  away  to  the  cast, 
where  they  lay  piled  in  feathery  masses,  tinted  with 
the  last  rosy  rays  of  the  sun.  The  distant  play  of  the 
lightning  might  be  seen  about  the  dark  bases,  and  now 
and  then  might  be  heard  the  faint  muttering  of  the 


Dolph  Heyliger  149 

thunder.  Dolph  rose,  and  sought  about  to  see  if  any 
path  led  from  the  shore,  but  all  was  savage  and  track- 
less. The  rocks  were  piled  upon  each  other;  great 
trunks  of  trees  lay  shattered  about,  as  they  had  been 
blown  down  by  the  strong  winds  which  draw  through 
these  mountains,  or  had  fallen  through  age.  The 
rocks,  too,  were  overhung  with  wild  vines  and  briers, 
which  completely  matted  themselves  together,  and 
opposed  a  barrier  to  all  ingress;  every  movement  that 
he  made  shook  down  a  shower  from  the  dripping  foliage. 
He  attempted  to  scale  one  of  these  almost  perpendicu- 
lar heights;  but,  though  strong  and  agile,  he  found  it 
an  Herculean  undertaking.  Often  he  was  supported 
merely  by  crumbling  projections  of  the  rock,  and  some- 
times he  clung  to  roots  and  branches  of  trees,  and  hung 
almost  suspended  in  the  air.  The  wood-pigeon  came 
cleaving  his  whistling  flight  by  him,  and  the  eagle 
screamed  from  the  brow  of  the  impending  cliff.  As  he 
was  thus  clambering,  he  was  on  the  point  of  seizing 
hold  of  a  shrub  to  aid  his  ascent,  when  something  rustled 
among  the  leaves,  and  he  saw  a  snake  quivering  along 
like  lightning,  almost  from  under  his  hand.  It  coiled 
itself  up  immediately,  in  an  attitude  of  defiance,  with 
flattened  head,  distended  jaws,  and  quickly  vibrating 
tongue,  that  played  like  a  little  flame  about  its  mouth. 
Dolph's  heart  turned  faint  within  him,  and  he  had  well 
nigh  let  go  his  hold,  and  tumbled  down  the  precipice. 
The  serpent  stood  on  the  defensive  but  for  an  instant; 
and,  finding  there  was  no  attack,  glided  away  into  a 
cleft  of  the  rock.  Dolph's  eye  followed  it  with  fearful 
intensity,  and  saw  a  nest  of  adders,  knotted,  and  writh- 


150  Stones  of  the  Hudson 

ing,  and  hissing  in  the  chasm.  He  hastened  with  all 
speed  from  so  frightful  a  neighborhood.  His  imagina- 
tion, full  of  this  new  horror,  saw  an  adder  in  every 
i  curling  vine,  and  heard  the  tail  of  a  rattlesnake  in  every 
dry  leaf  that  rustled. 

At  length  he  succeeded  in  scrambling  to  the  summit  of 
a  precipice,  but  it  was  covered  by  a  dense  forest.  Where- 
ever  he  could  gain  a  lookout  between  the  trees,  he 
beheld  heights  and  cliffs,  one  rising  beyond  another, 
until  huge  mountains  overtopped  the  whole.  There 
were  no  signs  of  cultivation;  no  smoke  curling  among 
the  trees,  to  indicate  a  human  residence.  Everything 
was  wild  and  solitary.  As  he  was  standing  on  the  edge 
of  a  precipice  overlooking  a  deep  ravine  fringed  with 
trees,  his  feet  detached  a  great  fragment  of  rock;  it 
fell,  crashing  Its  way  through  the  tree  tops,  down  into 
the  chasm.  A  loud  whoop,  or  rather  yell,  Issued  from 
the  bottom  of  the  glen;  the  moment  after  there  was 
the  report  of  a  gun;  and  a  ball  came  whistling  over  his 
head,  cutting  the  twigs  and  leaves,  and  burying  Itself 
deep  in  the  bark  of  a  chestnut  tree. 

Dolph  did  not  wait  for  a  second  shot,  but  made  a 
precipitate  retreat,  fearing  every  moment  to  hear  the 
enemy  In  pursuit.  He  succeeded,  however,  in  return- 
ing unmolested  to  the  shore,  and  determined  to  pene- 
trate no  farther  Into  a  country  so  beset  with  savage 
perils. 

He  sat  himself  down,  dripping,  disconsolately,  on  a 
wet  stone.  What  was  to  be  done.^  Where  was  he  to 
shelter  himself.''  The  hour  of  repose  was  approaching; 
the  birds  were  seeking  their  nests,  the  bat  began  to  flit 


Looking  dozen  on  the  eastern  valley  from  a  height  of  the  Catskills 


Dolph  Heyliger  151 

about  In  the  twilight,  and  the  nlghthawk,  soaring  high 
in  the  heaven,  seemed  to  be  calling  out  the  stars.  Night 
gradually  closed  In,  and  wrapped  everything  in  gloom; 
and  though  It  was  the  latter  part  of  summer,  the  breeze 
stealing  along  the  river,  and  among  these  dripping  for- 
ests, was  chilly  and  penetrating,  especially  to  a  half- 
drowned  man. 

As  he  sat  drooping  and  despondent  in  this  comfortless 
condition,  he  perceived  a  light  gleaming  through  the 
trees  near  the  shore,  where  the  winding  of  the  river 
made  a  deep  bay.  It  cheered  him  with  the  hope  of  a 
human  habitation,  where  he  might  get  something  to 
appease  the  clamorous  cravings  of  his  stomach,  and 
what  was  equally  necessary  in  his  shipwrecked  condi- 
tion, a  comfortable  shelter  for  the  night.  With  extreme 
dlfhculty  he  made  his  way  towards  the  light,  along 
ledges  of  rocks,  down  which  he  was  in  danger  of  sliding 
into  the  river,  and  over  great  trunks  of  fallen  trees, 
some  of  which  had  been  blown  down  in  the  late  storm, 
and  lay  so  thickly  together,  that  he  had  to  struggle 
through  their  branches.  At  length  he  came  to  the  brow 
of  a  rock  overhanging  a  small  dell,  whence  the  light 
proceeded.  It  was  from  a  fire  at  the  foot  of  a  great  tree 
in  the  midst  of  a  grassy  interval  or  plat  among  the  rocks. 
The  fire  cast  up  a  red  glare  among  the  grey  crags  and 
impending  trees;  leaving  chasms  of  deep  gloom,  that 
resembled  entrances  to  caverns.  A  small  brook  rippled 
close  by,  betrayed  by  the  quivering  reflection  of  the 
flame.  There  were  two  figures  moving  about  the  fire, 
and  others  squatted  before  it.  As  they  were  between 
him  and  the  light,  they  were  In  complete  shadow,  but 


152  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

one  of  them  happening  to  move  round  to  the  opposite 
side,  Dolph  was  startled  at  perceiving,  by  the  glare 
falling  on  painted  features,  and  glittering  on  silver 
ornaments,  that  he  was  an  Indian.  He  now  looked 
more  narrowly,  and  saw  guns  leaning  against  a  tree, 
and  a  dead  body  lying  on  the  ground.  Here  was  the 
very  foe  that  had  fired  at  him  from  the  glen.  He  en- 
deavored to  retreat  quietly,  not  caring  to  intrust  him- 
self to  these  half-human  beings,  in  so  savage  and  lonely 
a  place.  It  was  too  late;  the  Indian,  with  that  eagle 
quickness  of  eye  so  remarkable  in  his  race,  perceived 
something  stirring  among  the  bushes  on  the  rock;  he 
seized  one  of  the  guns  that  leaned  against  the  tree;  one 
moment  more,  and  Dolph  might  have  had  his  passion 
for  adventure  cured  by  a  bullet.  He  hallooed  loudly, 
with  the  Indian  salutation  of  friendship;  the  whole 
party  sprang  upon  their  feet;  the  salutation  was  re- 
turned, and  the  straggler  was  invited  to  join  them  at 
the  fire. 

On  approaching,  he  found,  to  his  consolation,  the  party 
was  composed  of  white  men,  as  well  as  Indians.  One, 
evidently  the  principal  personage,  or  commander,  was 
seated  on  a  trunk  of  a  tree  before  the  fire.  He  was  a 
large  stout  man,  somewhat  advanced  in  life,  but  hale 
and  hearty.  His  face  was  bronzed  almost  to  the  color 
of  an  Indian's;  he  had  strong  but  rather  jovial  features, 
an  aquiline  nose,  and  a  mouth  shaped  like  a  mastiff"'s. 
His  face  was  half  thrown  in  shade  by  a  broad  hat,  with 
a  buck's  tail  in  it.  His  grey  hair  hung  short  in  his  neck. 
He  wore  a  Imnting-frock,  with  Indian  leggins  and  moc- 
casins,  and  a   tomahawk  in   the   broad   wampum-belt 


Dolph  Heyllger  153 

round  his  waist.  As  Dolph  caught  a  distinct  view  of 
his  person  and  features,  something  reminded  him  of 
the  old  man  of  the  haunted  house.  The  man  before 
him,  however,  was  different  in  dress  and  age;  he  was 
more  cheery  too  in  aspect,  and  it  was  hard  to  define 
where  the  vague  resemblance  lay;  but  a  resemblance 
there  certainly  was.  Dolph  felt  some  degree  of  awe 
in  approaching  him;  but  was  assured  by  a  frank, 
hearty  welcome.  He  was  still  further  encouraged,  by 
perceiving  that  the  dead  body,  which  had  caused  him 
some  alarm,  was  that  of  a  deer;  and  his  satisfaction 
was  complete  in  discerning,  by  savory  steams  from  a 
kettle,  suspended  by  a  hooked  stick  over  the  fire,  that 
there  was  a  part  cooking  for  the  evening's  repast. 

He  had,  in  fact,  fallen  in  with  a  rambling  hunting 
party;  such  as  often  took  place  in  those  days  among 
the  settlers  along  the  river.  The  hunter  is  always 
hospitable;  and  nothing  makes  men  more  social  and 
unceremonious  than  meeting  in  the  wilderness.  The 
commander  of  the  party  poured  out  a  dram  of  cheering 
liquor,  which  he  gave  him  with  a  merry  leer,  to  warm 
his  heart;  and  ordered  one  of  his  followers  to  fetch 
some  garments  from  a  pinnace,  moored  in  a  cove  close 
by,  while  those  in  which  our  hero  was  dripping  might 
be  dried  before  the  fire. 

Dolph  found,  as  he  had  suspected,  that  the  shot  from 
the  glen,  which  had  come  so  near  giving  him  his  quietus 
when  on  the  precipice,  was  from  the  party  before  him. 
He  had  nearly  crushed  one  of  them  by  the  fragments  of 
rock  which  he  had  detached;  and  the  jovial  old  hunter, 
in  the  broad  hat  and  buck-tail,  had  fired  at  the  place 


154  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

where  he  saw  the  bushes  move,  supposing  It  to  be  some 
wild  animal.  He  laughed  heartily  at  the  blunder;  It 
being  what  is  considered  an  exceeding  good  joke  among 
hunters;  "but  faith,  my  lad,"  said  he,  "if  I  had  but 
caught  a  glimpse  of  you  to  take  sight  at,  you  would  have 
followed  the  rock.  Antony  Vander  Heyden  is  seldom 
known  to  miss  his  aim."  These  last  words  were  at 
once  a  clue  to  Dolph's  curiosity;  and  a  few  questions 
let  him  completely  Into  the  character  of  the  man  before 
him,  and  of  his  band  of  woodland  rangers.  The  com- 
mander In  the  broad  hat  and  hunting-frock  was  no 
less  a  personage  than  the  Heer  Antony  Vander  Heyden, 
of  Albany,  of  whom  Dolph  had  many  a  time  heard. 
He  was,  in  fact,  the  hero  of  many  a  story;  his  singular 
humors  and  whimsical  habits  being  matters  of  wonder 
to  his  quiet  Dutch  neighbors.  As  he  was  a  man  of 
property,  having  had  a  father  before  him,  from  whom 
he  inherited  large  tracts  of  wild  land,  and  whole  barrels 
full  of  wampum,  he  could  indulge  his  humors  without 
control.  Instead  of  staying  quietly  at  home,  eating 
and  drinking  at  regular  mealtimes,  amusing  himself 
by  smoking  his  pipe  on  the  bench  before  the  door,  and 
then  turning  into  a  comfortable  bed  at  night,  he  de- 
lighted in  all  kinds  of  rough,  wild  expeditions.  Never 
so  happy  as  when  on  a  hunting  party  in  the  wilderness, 
sleeping  under  trees  or  bark  sheds,  or  cruising  down 
the  river,  or  on  some  woodland  lake,  fishing  and  fowl- 
ing, and  living  the  Lord  knows  how. 

He  was  a  great  friend  to  Indians,  and  to  an  Indian 
mode  of  life;  which  he  considered  true  natural  liberty 
and  manly  enjoyment.     When  at  home  he  had  always 


Dolph  Heyllger  155 

several  Indian  hangers-on,  who  loitered  about  his  house, 
sleeping  like  hounds  in  the  sunshine;  or  preparing 
hunting  and  fishing-tackle  for  some  new  expedition; 
or  shooting  at  marks  with  bows  and  arrows. 

Over  these  vagrant  beings  Heer  Antony  had  as  per- 
fect command  as  a  huntsman  over  his  pack;  though 
they  were  great  nuisances  to  the  regular  people  of  his 
neighborhood.  As  he  was  a  rich  man,  no  one  ventured 
to  thwart  his  humors;  indeed,  his  hearty,  joyous  man- 
ner made  him  universally  popular.  He  would  troll  a 
Dutch  song  as  he  tramped  along  the  street;  hail  every 
one  a  mile  off,  and  when  he  entered  a  house,  would  slap 
the  good  man  familiarly  on  the  back,  shake  him  by  the 
hand  till  he  roared,  and  kiss  his  wife  and  daughter 
before  his  face — in  short,  there  was  no  pride  nor  ill 
humor  about  Heer  Antony. 

Besides  his  Indian  hangers-on,  he  had  three  or  four 
humble  friends  among  the  white  men,  who  looked  up 
to  him  as  a  patron,  and  had  the  run  of  his  kitchen,  and 
the  favor  of  being  taken  with  him  occasionally  on  his 
expeditions.  With  a  medley  of  such  retainers  he  was 
at  present  on  a  cruise  along  the  shores  of  the  Hudson, 
in  a  pinnace  kept  for  his  own  recreation.  There  were 
two  white  men  with  him,  dressed  partly  in  the  Indian 
style,  with  moccasins  and  hunting-shirts;  the  rest  of 
his  crew  consisted  of  four  favorite  Indians.  They  had 
been  prowling  about  the  river,  without  any  definite 
object,  until  they  found  themselves  in  the  Highlands; 
where  they  had  passed  two  or  three  days,  hunting  the 
deer  which  still  lingered  among  these  mountains. 

"It   is    lucky   for   you,   young   man,"    said   Antony 


156  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

Vander  Heyden,  "that  you  happened  to  be  knocked 
overboard  to-day;  as  to-morrow  morning  we  start 
early  on  our  return  homewards;  and  you  might  then 
have  looked  in  vain  for  a  meal  among  the  mountains — 
but  come,  lads,  stir  about!  stir  about!  Let's  see  what 
prog  we  have  for  supper;  the  kettle  has  boiled  long 
enough;  my  stomach  cries  cupboard;  and  I'll  warrant 
our  guest  is  in  no  mood  to  dally  with  his  trencher." 

There  was  a  bustle  now  in  the  little  encampment; 
one  took  off  the  kettle  and  turned  a  part  of  the  contents 
into  a  huge  wooden  bowl.  Another  prepared  a  flat 
rock  for  a  table;  while  a  third  brought  various  utensils 
from  the  pinnace;  Heer  Antony  himself  brought  a 
flask  or  two  of  precious  liquor  from  his  own  private 
locker;  knowing  his  boon  companions  too  well  to  trust 
any  of  them  with  the  key. 

A  rude  but  hearty  repast  was  soon  spread;  consist- 
ing of  venison  smoking  from  the  kettle,  with  cold  bacon, 
boiled  Indian  corn,  and  mighty  loaves  of  good  brown 
household  bread.  Never  had  Dolph  made  a  more 
delicious  repast;  and  when  he  had  washed  it  down  with 
two  or  three  draughts  from  the  Heer  Antony's  flask, 
and  felt  the  jolly  liquor  sending  its  warmth  through  his 
veins,  and  glowing  round  his  very  heart,  he  would  not 
have  changed  his  situation,  no,  not  with  the  governor 
of  the  province. 

The  Heer  Antony,  too,  grew  chirping  and  joyous; 
told  half  a  dozen  fat  stories,  at  which  his  white  followers 
laughed  immoderately,  though  the  Indians,  as  usual, 
maintained  an  invincible  gravity. 

"This  is  your  true  life,  my  boy!"  said  he,  slapping 


Dolph  Heyliger  157 

Dolph  on  the  shoulder;  "a  man  is  never  a  man  till  he 
can  defy  wind  and  weather,  range  woods  and  wilds, 
sleep  under  a  tree,  and  live  on  basswood  leaves!" 

And  then  would  he  sing  a  stave  or  two  of  a  Dutch 
drinking  song,  swaying  a  short  squab  Dutch  bottle  in 
his  hand,  while  his  myrmidons  would  join  in  the  chorus, 
until  the  woods  echoed  again; — as  the  good  old  song 
has  it. 


"They  all  with  a  shout  made  the  elements  ring, 
So  soon  as  the  office  was  o'er; 
To  feasting  they  went,  with  true  merriment. 
And  tippled  strong  liquor  galore." 


In  the  midst  of  his  joviality,  however,  Heer  Antony 
did  not  lose  sight  of  discretion.  Though  he  pushed  the 
bottle  without  reserve  to  Dolph,  he  always  took  care  to 
help  his  followers  himself,  knowing  the  beings  he  had 
to  deal  with;  and  was  particular  in  granting  but  a 
moderate  allowance  to  the  Indians.  The  repast  being 
ended,  the  Indians  having  drunk  their  liquor  and 
smoked  their  pipes,  now  wrapped  themselves  in  their 
blankets,  stretched  themselves  on  the  ground,  with 
their  feet  to  the  fire,  and  soon  fell  asleep,  like  so  many 
tired  hounds.  The  rest  of  the  party  remained  chatter- 
ing before  the  fire,  which  the  gloom  of  the  forest,  and 
the  dampness  of  the  air  from  the  late  storm,  rendered 
extremely  grateful  and  comforting.  The  conversation 
gradually  moderated  from  the  hilarity  of  supper-time, 
and  turned  upon  hunting  adventures,  and  exploits  and 


158  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

perils  in  the  wilderness;  many  of  which  were  so  strange 
and  improbable,  that  I  will  not  venture  to  repeat  them, 
lest  the  veracity  of  Antony  Vander  Heyden  and  his 
comrades  should  be  brought  into  question.  There  were 
many  legendary  tales  told,  also,  about  the  river,  and 
the  settlements  on  its  borders;  in  which  valuable  kind 
of  lore  the  Heer  Antony  seemed  deeply  versed.  As  the 
sturdy  bush-beater  sat  in  a  twisted  root  of  a  tree,  that 
served  him  for  an  armchair,  dealing  forth  these  wild 
stories,  with  the  fire  gleaming  on  his  strongly-marked 
visage,  Dolph  was  again  repeatedly  perplexed  by  some- 
thing that  reminded  him  of  the  phantom  of  the  haunted 
house;  some  vague  resemblance  not  to  be  fixed  upon 
any  precise  feature  or  lineament,  but  pervading  the 
general  air  of  his  countenance  and  figure. 

The  circumstance  of  Dolph's  falling  overboard  led 
to  the  relation  of  divers  disasters  and  singular  mishaps 
that  had  befallen  voyagers  on  this  great  river,  particu- 
larly in  the  earlier  periods  of  colonial  history;  most  of 
which  the  Heer  deliberately  attributed  to  supernatural 
causes.  Dolph  stared  at  this  suggestion;  but  the  old 
gentleman  assured  him  it  was  very  currently  believed 
by  the  settlers  along  the  river,  that  these  Highlands 
were  under  the  dominion  of  supernatural  and  mis- 
chievous beings,  which  seemed  to  have  taken  some 
pique  against  the  Dutch  colonists  in  the  early  time  of 
the  settlement.  In  consequence  of  this,  they  have  ever 
taken  particular  delight  in  venting  their  spleen,  and 
indulging  their  humors,  upon  the  Dutch  skippers; 
bothering  them  with  flaws,  head  winds,  counter- 
currents,    and    all    kinds   of   impediments;  ;  insomuch, 


Dolph  Heyliger  159 

that  a  Dutch  navigator  was  always  obliged  to  be  ex- 
ceedingly wary  and  deliberate  in  his  proceedings;  to 
come  to  anchor  at  dusk;  to  drop  his  peak,  or  take  in 
sail,  whenever  he  saw  a  swag-bellied  cloud  rolling  over 
the  mountains;  in  short,  to  take  so  many  precautions, 
that  he  was  often  apt  to  be  an  incredible  time  in  tolling 
up  the  river. 

Some,  he  said,  believed  these  mischievous  powers  of 
the  air  to  be  evil  spirits  conjured  up  by  the  Indian 
wizards,  in  the  early  times  of  the  province,  to  revenge 
themselves  on  the  strangers  who  had  dispossessed  them 
of  their  country.  They  even  attributed  to  their  incan- 
tations the  misadventure  which  befell  the  renowned 
Hendrick  Hudson,  when  he  sailed  so  gallantly  up  this 
river  in  quest  of  a  northwest  passage,  and,  as  he  thought, 
ran  his  ship  aground;  which  they  affirm  was  nothing 
more  nor  less  than  a  spell  of  these  same  wizards,  to 
prevent  his  getting  to  China  in  this  direction. 

The  greater  part,  however,  Heer  Antony  observed, 
accounted  for  all  the  extraordinary  circumstances  at- 
tending this  river,  and  the  perplexities  of  the  skippers 
who  navigated  it,  by  the  old  legend  of  the  Storm-ship 
which  haunted  Point-no-point.  On  finding  Dolph  to 
be  utterly  ignorant  of  this  tradition,  the  Heer  stared  at 
him  for  a  moment  with  surprise,  and  wondered  where 
he  had  passed  his  life,  to  be  uninformed  on  so  important 
a  point  of  history.  To  pass  away  the  remainder  of  the 
evening,  therefore,  he  undertook  the  tale,  as  far  as  his 
memory  would  serve,  in  the  very  words  in  which  it  had 
been  written  out  by  Mynheer  Selyne,  an  early  poet  of 
the  New  Nederlandts.    Giving,  then,  a  stir  to  the  fire. 


l6o  Stones  of  the  Hudson 

that  sent  up  its  sparks  among  the  trees  Hke  a  little 
volcano,  he  adjusted  himself  comfortably  in  his  root 
of  a  tree;  and  throwing  back  his  head,  and  closing  his 
eyes  for  a  few  moments,  to  summon  up  his  recollection, 
he  related  the  following  legend. 

THE    STORM-SHIP 

In  the  golden  age  of  the  province  of  the  New  Nether- 
lands, when  under  the  sway  of  Wouter  Van  Twiller, 
otherwise  called  the  Doubter,  the  people  of  the  Man- 
hattoes  were  alarmed  one  sultry  afternoon,  just  about 
the  time  of  the  summer  solstice,  by  a  tremendous  storm 
of  thunder  and  lightning.  The  rain  fell  in  such  torrents 
as  absolutely  to  spatter  up  and  smoke  along  the  ground. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  thunder  rattled  and  rolled  over  the 
very  roofs  of  the  houses;  the  lightning  was  seen  to  play 
about  the  church  of  St.  Nicholas,  and  to  strive  three 
times,  in  vain,  to  strike  its  weathercock.  Garret  Van 
Home's  new  chimney  was  split  almost  from  top  to 
bottom;  and  DofFue  Mildeberger  was  struck  speechless 
from  his  bald-faced  mare,  just  as  he  was  riding  into 
town.  In  a  word,  it  was  one  of  those  unparalleled 
storms  which  only  happen  once  within  the  memory  of 
that  venerable  personage,  known  in  all  towns  by  the 
appellation  of  "the  oldest  inhabitant." 

Great  was  the  terror  of  the  good  old  women  of  the 
Manhattocs.  They  gathered  their  children  together, 
and  took  refuge  in  the  cellars,  after  having  hung  a  shoe 
on  the  iron  point  of  every  bedpost,  lest  it  should 
attract   the   lightning.     At   length   the   storm   abated; 


Dolph  Heyliger  i6i 

the  thunder  sank  into  a  growl;  and  the  setting  sun, 
breaking  from  under  the  fringed  borders  of  the  clouds, 
made  the  broad  bosom  of  the  bay  to  gleam  like  a  sea  of 
molten  gold. 

The  word  was  given  from  the  fort  that  a  ship  was 
standing  up  the  bay.  It  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth, 
and  street  to  street,  and  soon  put  the  little  capital  in  a 
bustle.  The  arrival  of  a  ship,  in  those  early  times  of 
the  settlement,  was  an  event  of  vast  importance  to  the 
inhabitants.  It  brought  them  news  from  the  old  world, 
from  the  land  of  their  birth,  from  which  they  were  so 
completely  severed:  to  the  yearly  ship,  too,  they 
looked  for  their  supply  of  luxuries,  of  finery,  of  com- 
forts, and  almost  of  necessaries.  The  good  vrouw  could 
not  have  her  new  cap  nor  new  gown  until  the  arrival 
of  the  ship;  the  artist  waited  for  it  for  his  tools,  the 
burgomaster  for  his  pipe  and  his  supply  of  Hollands, 
the  schoolboy  for  his  top  and  marbles,  and  the  lordly 
landholder  for  the  bricks  with  which  he  was  to  build 
his  new  mansion.  Thus  every  one,  rich  and  poor,  great 
and  small,  looked  out  for  the  arrival  of  the  ship.  It 
was  the  great  yearly  event  of  the  town  of  New  Amster- 
dam; and  from  one  end  of  the  year  to  the  other,  the 
ship — the  ship — the  ship — was  the  continual  topic  of 
conversation. 

The  news  from  the  fort,  therefore,  brought  all  the 
populace  down  to  the  Battery,  to  behold  the  wished- 
for  sight.  It  was  not  exactly  the  time  when  she  had 
been  expected  to  arrive,  and  the  circumstance  was  a 
matter  of  some  speculation.  Many  were  the  groups 
collected  about  the  Battery.     Here  and  there  might  be 


i62  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

seen  a  burgomaster,  of  slow  and  pompous  gravity, 
giving  his  opinion  with  great  confidence  to  a  crowd  of 
old  women  and  idle  boys.  At  another  place  was  a  knot 
of  old  weather-beaten  fellows  who  had  been  seamen  or 
fishermen  In  their  times,  and  were  great  authorities  on 
such  occasions;  these  gave  different  opinions,  and 
caused  great  disputes  among  their  several  adherents: 
but  the  man  most  looked  up  to,  and  followed  and 
watched  by  the  crowd,  was  Hans  Van  Pelt,  an  old 
Dutch  sea-captain  retired  from  service,  the  nautical 
oracle  of  the  place.  He  reconnoitred  the  ship  through 
an  ancient  telescope,  covered  with  tarry  canvas,  hummed 
a  Dutch  tune  to  himself,  and  said  nothing.  A  hum, 
however,  from  Hans  Van  Pelt,  had  always  more  weight 
with  the  public  than  a  speech  from  another  man. 

In  the  meantime  the  ship  became  more  distinct  to 
the  naked  eye:  she  was  a  stout,  round,  Dutch-built 
vessel,  with  high  bow  and  poop,  and  bearing  Dutch 
colors.  The  evening  sun  gilded  her  bellying  canvas,  as 
she  came  riding  over  the  long  waving  billows.  The 
sentinel  who  had  given  notice  of  her  approach,  declared 
that  he  first  got  sight  of  her  when  she  was  in  the  centre 
of  the  bay;  and  that  she  broke  suddenly  on  his  sight, 
just  as  If  she  had  come  out  of  the  bosom  of  the  black 
thundercloud.  The  bystanders  looked  at  Hans  Van 
Pelt,  to  see  what  he  would  say  to  this  report:  Hans 
Van  Pelt  screwed  his  mouth  closer  together,  and  said 
nothing;  upon  which  some  shook  their  heads,  and 
others  shrugged  their  shoulders. 

The  sliip  was  now  repeatedly  hailed,  but  made  no 
reply,  and  passing  by  the  fort,  stood  on  up  the  Hudson. 


Dolph  Heyliger  163 

A  gun  was  brought  to  bear  on  her,  and  with  some  diffi- 
culty, loaded  and  fired  by  Hans  Van  Pelt,  the  garrison 
not  being  expert  in  artillery.  The  shot  seemed  abso- 
lutely to  pass  through  the  ship,  and  to  skip  along  the 
water  on  the  other  side,  but  no  notice  was  taken  of  it! 
What  was  strange,  she  had  all  her  sails  set,  and  sailed 
right  against  wind  and  tide,  which  were  both  down  the 
river.  Upon  this  Hans  Van  Pelt,  who  was  likewise 
harbor-master,  ordered  his  boat,  and  set  off  to  board 
her;  but  after  rowing  two  or  three  hours,  he  returned 
without  success.  Sometimes  he  would  get  within  one 
or  two  hundred  yards  of  her,  and  then,  in  a  twinkling, 
she  would  be  half  a  mile  off.  Some  said  it  was  because 
his  oarsmen,  who  were  rather  pursy  and  short-winded, 
stopped  every  now  and  then  to  take  breath,  and  spit 
on  their  hands;  but  this  it  is  probable  was  a  mere 
scandal.  He  got  near  enough,  however,  to  see  the 
crew;  who  were  all  dressed  in  the  Dutch  style,  the 
officers  in  doublets  and  high  hats  and  feathers;  not  a 
word  was  spoken  by  any  one  on  board;  they 
stood  as  motionless  as  so  many  statues,  and  the  ship 
seemed  as  if  left  to  her  own  government.  Thus  she 
kept  on,  away  up  the  river,  lessening  and  lessening 
in  the  evening  sunshine,  until  she  faded  from  sight, 
like  a  little  white  cloud  melting  away  in  the  summer 
sky. 

The  appearance  of  this  ship  threw  the  governor  into 
one  of  the  deepest  doubts  that  ever  beset  him  in  the 
whole  course  of  his  administration.  Fears  were  enter- 
tained for  the  security  of  the  infant  settlements  on  the 
river,  lest  this  might  be  an  enemy's  ship  in  disguise, 


164  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

sent  to  take  possession.  The  governor  called  together 
his  council  repeatedly  to  assist  him  with  their  conjec- 
tures. He  sat  in  his  chair  of  state,  built  of  timber  from 
the  sacred  forest  of  the  Hague,  smoking  his  long  jasmin 
pipe,  and  listening  to  all  that  his  councillors  had  to  say 
on  a  subject  about  which  they  knew  nothing;  but  in 
spite  of  all  the  conjecturing  of  the  sagest  and  oldest 
heads,  the  governor  still  continued  to  doubt. 

Messengers  were  dispatched  to  different  places  on 
the  river;  but  they  returned  without  any  tidings — the 
ship  had  made  no  port.  Day  after  day,  and  week  after 
week,  elapsed,  but  she  never  returned  down  the  Hudson. 
As,  however,  the  council  seemed  solicitous  for  intelli- 
gence, they  had  it  in  abundance.  The  captains  of  the 
sloops  seldom  arrived  without  bringing  some  report  of 
having  seen  the  strange  ship  at  different  parts  of  the 
river;  sometimes  near  the  Palisadoes,  sometimes  off 
Croton  Point,  and  sometimes  in  the  Highlands;  but 
she  never  was  reported  as  having  been  seen  above  the 
Highlands.  The  crews  of  the  sloops,  it  is  true,  gener- 
ally differed  among  themselves  in  their  accounts  of 
these  apparitions;  but  that  may  have  arisen  from  the 
uncertain  situations  In  which  they  saw  her.  Some- 
times it  was  by  the  flashes  of  the  thunderstorm  lighting 
up  a  pitchy  night,  and  giving  glimpses  of  her  careering 
across  Tappan  Zee,  or  the  wide  waste  of  Haverstraw 
Bay.  At  one  moment  she  would  appear  close  upon 
them,  as  if  likely  to  run  them  down,  and  would  throw 
them  into  great  bustle  and  alarm;  but  the  next  flash 
would  show  her  far  off,  always  sailing  against  the  wind. 
Sometimes,  in  quiet  moonlight  nights,  she  would  be 


Dolph  Heyliger  165 

seen  under  some  high  bluff  of  the  Highlands,  all  in  deep 
shadow,  excepting  her  topsails  glittering  in  the  moon- 
beams; by  the  time,  however,  that  the  voyagers 
reached  the  place,  no  ship  was  to  be  seen;  and  when 
they  had  passed  on  for  some  distance,  and  looked  back, 
behold!  there  she  was  again,  with  her  topsails  in  the 
moonshine!  Her  appearance  was  always  just  after,  or 
just  before,  or  just  in  the  midst  of  unruly  weather;  and 
she  was  known  among  the  skippers  and  voyagers  of  the 
Hudson  by  the  name  of  "the  storm-ship." 

These  reports  perplexed  the  governor  and  his  council 
more  than  ever,  and  it  would  be  endless  to  repeat  the 
conjectures  and  opinions  uttered  on  the  subject.  Some 
quoted  cases  in  point,  of  ships  seen  off  the  coast  of  New 
England,  navigated  by  witches  and  goblins.  Old  Hans 
Van  Pelt,  who  had  been  more  than  once  to  the  Dutch 
colony  at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  Insisted  that  this 
must  be  the  Flying  Dutchman,  which  had  so  long 
haunted  Table  Bay,  but  being  unable  to  make  port,  had 
now  sought  another  harbor.  Others  suggested,  that  if 
it  really  was  a  supernatural  apparition,  as  there  was 
every  natural  reason  to  believe,  it  might  be  Hendrick 
Hudson,  and  his  crew  of  the  Half  Moon  who,  it  was 
well  known,  had  once  run  aground  in  the  upper  part 
of  the  river,  in  seeking  a  northwest  passage  to  China. 
This  opinion  had  very  little  weight  with  the  governor, 
but  if  passed  current  out  of  doors,  for,  indeed,  it  had 
already  been  reported  that  Hendrick  Hudson  and  his 
crew  haunted  the  Kaatskill  Mountain;  and  it  appeared 
very  reasonable  to  suppose,  that  his  ship  might  infest 
the  river  where  the  enterprise  was  baffled,  or  that  it 


1 66  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

might  bear  the  shadowy  crew  to  their  periodical  revels 
in  the  mountain. 

Other  events  occurred  to  occupy  the  thoughts  and 
doubts  of  the  sage  Wouter  and  his  council,  and  the 
storm-ship  ceased  to  be  a  subject  of  deliberation  at  the 
board.  It  continued,  however,  a  matter  of  popular 
belief  and  marvellous  anecdote  through  the  whole  time 
of  the  Dutch  government,  and  particularly  just  before 
the  capture  of  New  Amsterdam,  and  the  subjugation 
of  the  province  by  the  English  squadron.  About  that 
time  the  storm-ship  was  repeatedly  seen  in  the  Tappan 
Zee,  and  about  VVeehawk,  and  even  down  as  far  as 
Hoboken,  and  her  appearance  was  supposed  to  be 
ominous  of  the  approaching  squall  in  public  affairs,  and 
the  downfall  of  Dutch  domination. 

Since  that  time  we  have  no  authentic  accounts  of  her, 
though  it  is  said  she  still  haunts  the  Highlands,  and 
cruises  about  Point-no-point.  People  who  live  along 
the  river,  insist  that  they  sometimes  see  her  in  summer 
moonlight,  and  that  in  a  deep,  still  midnight,  they  have 
heard  the  chant  of  her  crew,  as  if  heaving  the  lead;  but 
sights  and  sounds  are  so  deceptive  along  the  mountain- 
ous shores,  and  about  the  wide  bays  and  long  reaches 
of  this  great  river,  that  I  confess  I  have  very  strong 
doubts  upon  the  subject. 

It  is  certain,  nevertheless,  that  strange  things  have 
been  seen  in  these  Highlands  in  storms,  which  are  con- 
sidered as  connected  with  the  old  story  of  the  ship.  The 
captains  of  the  river  craft  talk  of  a  little  bulbous-bot- 
tomed Dutch  goblin,  in  trunk  hose  and  sugar-loafed  hat, 
with  a  speakingtrumpct  in  his  hand, which  theysay  keeps 


Dolph  Heyliger  167 

the  Dunderberg.*  They  declare  that  they  have  heard 
him,  In  stormy  weather,  in  the  midst  of  the  turmoil, 
giving  orders  in  low  Dutch,  for  the  piping  up  of  a  fresh 
gust  of  wind,  or  the  rattling  oif  of  another  thunderclap. 
That  sometimes  he  has  been  seen  surrounded  by  a 
crew  of  little  imps,  in  broad  breeches  and  short  doublets, 
tumbling  head  over  heels  in  the  rack  and  mist,  and 
playing  a  thousand  gambols  in  the  air,  or  buzzing  like 
a  swarm  of  flies  about  Anthony's  Nose;  and  that,  at 
such  times,  the  hurry-scurry  of  the  storm  was  always 
greatest.  One  time  a  sloop,  in  passing  by  the  Dunder- 
berg, was  overtaken  by  a  thundergust,  that  came 
scouring  round  the  mountain,  and  seemed  to  burst  just 
over  the  vessel.  Though  tight  and  well  ballasted,  she 
labored  dreadfully,  and  the  water  came  over  the  gun- 
wale. All  the  crew  were  amazed,  when  it  was  discovered 
that  there  was  a  little  white  sugar-loaf  hat  on  the  mast- 
head, known  at  once  to  be  the  hat  of  the  Heer  of  the 
Dunderberg.  Nobody,  however,  dared  to  climb  to  the 
masthead,  and  get  rid  of  this  terrible  hat.  The  sloop 
continued  laboring  and  rocking,  as  if  she  would  have 
rolled  her  mast  overboard,  and  seemed  in  continual 
danger  either  of  upsetting,  or  of  running  on  shore.  In 
this  way  she  drove  quite  through  the  Highlands,  until 
she  had  passed  Pollopol's  Island,  where,  it  is  said,  the 
jurisdiction  of  the  Dunderberg  potentate  ceases.  No 
sooner  had  she  passed  this  bourne,  than  the  little  hat 
spun  up  into  the  air,  like  a  top,  whirled  up  all  the  clouds 
into  a  vortex,  and  hurried  them  back  to  the  summit  of 
the  Dunderberg,  while  the  sloop  righted  herself,  and 
*i.  e.  the  "Thunder-Mountain,"  so  called  from  its  echoes. 


i68  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

sailed  on  as  quietly  as  if  in  a  millpond.  Nothing  saved 
her  from  utter  wreck  but  the  fortunate  circumstance  of 
having  a  horseshoe  nailed  against  the  mast,  a  wise 
precaution  against  evil  spirits,  since  adopted  by  all  the 
Dutch  captains  that  navigate  this  haunted  river. 

There  is  another  story  told  of  this  foul-weather  urchin 
by  Skipper  Daniel  Ouslesticker,  of  Fishkill,  who  was 
never  known  to  tell  a  lie.  He  declared  that,  in  a  severe 
squall,  he  saw  him  seated  astride  of  his  bowsprit,  riding 
the  sloop  ashore,  full  butt  against  Anthony's  Nose,  and 
that  he  was  exorcised  by  Dominie  Van  Gieson,  of 
Esopus,  who  happened  to  be  on  board,  and  who  sang 
the  hymn  of  St.  Nicholas,  whereupon  the  goblin  threw 
himself  up  in  the  air  like  a  ball,  and  went  oif  in  a  whirl- 
wind, carrying  away  with  him  the  nightcap  of  the 
dominie's  wife,  which  was  discovered  the  next  Sunday 
morning  hanging  on  the  weathercock  of  Esopus  church 
steeple,  at  least  forty  miles  off.  Several  events  of  this 
kind  having  taken  place,  the  regular  skippers  of  the 
river,  for  a  long  time,  did  not  venture  to  pass  the  Dun- 
derberg  without  lowering  their  peaks,  out  of  homage  to 
the  Heer  of  the  mountain,  and  it  was  observed  that  all 
such  as  paid  this  tribute  of  respect  were  suffered  to  pass 
unmolested.* 


*Among  the  superstitions  which  prevailed  in  the  colonics  during 
the  early  times  of  the  settlements,  there  seems  to  have  been  a  singu- 
lar one  about  phantom  ships.  The  superstitious  fancies  of  men  are 
always  apt  to  turn  upon  those  objects  which  concern  their  daily 
occupations.  The  solitary  ship,  which,  from  year  to  year,  came 
like  a  raven  in  the  wilderness,  bringing  to  the  inhabitants  of  a  settle- 
ment the  comforts  of  life  from  the  world  from  which  they  were  cut 
of?,  was  apt  to  be  present  to  their  dreams,  whether  sleeping  or  wak- 


Dolph  Heyliger  169 

"Such,"  said  Antony  Vander  Heyden,  "are  a  few  of 
the  stories  written  down  by  Selyne  the  poet,  concerning 
this  storm-ship;  which  he  afhrms  to  have  brought  a 
crew  of  mischievous  imps  into  the  province,  from  some 
old  ghost-ridden  country  of  Europe.  I  could  give  you 
a  host  more,  if  necessary;  for  all  the  accidents  that  so 
often  befall  the  river  craft  in  the  Highlands  are  said  to 
be  tricks  played  off  by  these  imps  of  the  Dunderberg; 
but  I  see  that  you  are  nodding,  so  let  us  turn  in  for  the 
night." 

The  moon  had  just  raised  her  silver  horns  above  the 
round  back  of  old  Bull  Hill,  and  lit  up  the  grey  rocks 
and  shagged  forests,  and  glittered  on  the  waving  bosom 
of  the  river.  The  night  dew  was  falling,  and  the  late 
gloomy  mountains  began  to  soften  and  put  on  a  grey 
aerial  tint  in  the  dewy  light.  The  hunters  stirred  the 
fire,  and  threw  on  fresh  fuel  to  qualify  the  damp  of  the 
night  air.  They  then  prepared  a  bed  of  branches  and 
dry  leaves  under  a  ledge  of  rocks  for  Dolph;  while 
Antony  Vander  Heyden,  wrapping  himself  in  a  huge  coat 
of  skins,  stretched  himself  before  the  fire.  It  was 
some  time,  however,  before  Dolph  could  close  his  eyes. 

ing.  The  accidental  sight  from  shore  of  a  sail  gliding  along  the  hori- 
zon in  those,  as  yet,  lonely  seas,  was  apt  to  be  a  matter  of  much 
talk  and  speculation.  There  is  mention  made  in  one  of  the  early 
New  England  writers,  of  a  ship  navigated  by  witches,  with  a  great 
horse  that  stood  by  the  mainmast.  I  have  met  another  story,  some- 
where, of  a  ship  that  drove  on  shore,  in  fair,  sunny,  tranquil  weather, 
with  sails  all  set,  and  a  table  spread  in  the  cabin,  as  if  to  regale  a 
number  of  guests,  yet  not  a  living  being  on  board.  These  phantom 
ships  always  sailed  in  the  eye  of  the  wind,  or  ploughed  their  way 
with  great  velocity,  making  the  smooth  sea  foam  before  their  bows, 
when  not  a  breath  of  air  was  stirring.    ■ 


170  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

He  lay  contemplating  the  strange  scene  before  him: 
the  wild  woods  and  rocks  around;  the  fire  throwing 
fitful  gleams  on  the  faces  of  the  sleeping  savages;  and 
the  Heer  Antony,  too,  who  so  singularly,  yet  vaguely, 
reminded  him  of  the  nightly  visitant  to  the  haunted 
house.  Now  and  then  he  heard  the  cry  of  some  animal 
from  the  forest;  or  the  hooting  of  the  owl;  or  the  notes 
of  the  whippoorwill,  which  seemed  to  abound  among 
these  solitudes;  or  the  splash  of  a  sturgeon,  leaping  out 
of  the  river,  and  falling  back  full  length  on  its  placid 
surface.  He  contrasted  all  this  with  his  accustomed 
nest  in  the  garret  room  of  the  doctor's  mansion;  where 
the  only  sounds  at  night  were  the  church  clock  telling 
the  hour;  the  drowsy  voice  of  the  watchman,  drawling 
out  all  was  well;  the  deep  snoring  of  the  doctor's 
clubbed  nose  from  below  stairs;  or  the  cautious  labors 
of  some  carpenter  rat  gnawing  in  the  wainscot.  His 
thoughts  then  wandered  to  his  poor  old  mother:  what 
would  she  think  of  his  mysterious  disappearance — 
what  anxiety  and  distress  would  she  not  suffer.?  This 
thought  would  continually  intrude  itself  to  mar  his 
present  enjoyment.  It  brought  with  it  a  feeling  of  pain 
and  compunction,  and  he  fell  asleep  with  the  tears  yet 
standing  in  his  eyes. 

Were  this  a  mere  tale  of  fancy,  here  would  be  a  fine 
opportunity  for  weaving  in  strange  adventures  among 
these  wild  mountains,  and  roving  hunters;  and,  after 
involving  my  hero  in  a  variety  of  perils  and  difficulties, 
rescuing  him  from  them  all  by  some  miraculous  contri- 
vance; but  as  this  is  absolutely  a  true  story,  I  must  con- 
tent myself  with  simple  facts,  and  keep  to  probabilities. 


Dolph  Heyliger  171 

At  an  early  hour  of  the  next  day,  therefore,  after  a 
hearty  morning's  meal,  the  encampment  broke  up,  and 
our  adventurers  embarked  in  the  pinnace  of  Antony 
Vander  Heyden.  There  being  no  wind  for  the  sails, 
the  Indians  rowed  her  gently  along,  keeping  time  to  a 
kind  of  chant  of  one  of  the  white  men.  The  day  was 
serene  and  beautiful;  the  river  without  a  wave;  and 
as  the  vessel  cleft  the  glassy  water,  it  left  a  long,  undulat- 
ing track  behind.  The  crows,  who  had  scented  the 
hunter's  banquet,  were  already  gathering  and  hovering 
in  the  air,  just  where  a  column  of  thin,  blue  smoke, 
rising  from  among  the  trees,  showed  the  place  of  their 
last  night's  quarters.  As  they  coasted  along  the  bases 
of  the  mountains,  the  Heer  Antony  pointed  out  to 
Dolph  a  bald  eagle,  the  sovereign  of  these  regions,  who 
sat  perched  on  a  dry  tree  that  projected  over  the  river; 
and,  with  eye  turned  upwards,  seemed  to  be  drinking 
in  the  splendor  of  the  morning  sun.  Their  approach 
disturbed  the  monarch's  meditations.  He  first  spread 
one  wing,  and  then  the  other;  balanced  himself  for  a 
moment;  and  then,  quitting  his  perch  with  dignified 
composure,  wheeled  slowly  over  their  heads.  Dolph 
snatched  up  a  gun,  and  sent  a  whistling  ball  after  him, 
that  cut  some  of  the  feathers  from  his  wing;  the  report 
of  the  gun  leaped  sharply  from  rock  to  rock,  and  awak- 
ened a  thousand  echoes;  but  the  monarch  of  the  air 
sailed  calmly  on,  ascending  higher  and  higher,  and 
wheeling  widely  as  he  ascended,  soaring  up  the  green 
bosom  of  the  woody  mountain,  until  he  disappeared 
over  the  brow  of  a  beetling  precipice.  Dolph  felt  in  a 
manner  rebuked  by  this  proud  tranquillity,  and  almost 


172  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

reproached  himself  for  having  so  wantonly  insulted 
this  majestic  bird.  Heer  Antony  told  him,  laughing, 
to  remember  that  he  was  not  yet  out  of  the  territories 
of  the  lord  of  the  Dunderberg;  and  an  old  Indian  shook 
his  head,  and  observed,  that  there  was  bad  luck  in 
killing  an  eagle;  the  hunter,  on  the  contrary,  should 
always  leave  him  a  portion  of  his  spoils. 

Nothing,  however,  occurred  to  molest  them  on  their 
voyage.  They  passed  pleasantly  through  magnificent 
and  lonely  scenes,  until  they  came  to  where  Pollopol's 
Island  lay,  like  a  floating  bower,  at  the  extremity  of  the 
Highlands.  Here  they  landed,  until  the  heat  of  the 
day  should  abate,  or  a  breeze  spring  up,  that  might 
supersede  the  labor  of  the  oar.  Some  prepared  the 
mid-day  meal,  while  others  reposed  under  the  shade  of 
the  trees  in  luxurious  summer  indolence,  looking 
drowsily  forth  upon  the  beauty  of  the  scene.  On  the 
one  side  were  the  Highlands,  vast  and  cragged,  feathered 
to  the  top  with  forests,  and  throwing  their  shadows  on 
the  glassy  water  that  dimpled  at  their  feet.  On  the 
other  side  was  a  wide  expanse  of  the  river,  like  a  broad 
lake,  with  long  sunny  reaches,  and  green  headlands; 
and  the  distant  line  of  Shawungunk  mountains  waving 
along  a  clear  horizon,  or  checkered  by  a  fleecy  cloud. 

But  I  forbear  to  dwell  on  the  particulars  of  their 
cruise  along  the  river;  this  vagrant,  amphibious  life, 
careering  across  silver  sheets  of  water;  coasting  wild 
woodland  shores;  banqueting  on  shady  promontories, 
with  the  spreading  tree  overhead,  the  river  curling  its 
light  foam  on  one's  feet,  the  distant  mountain,  and 
rock,  and  tree,  and  snowy  cloud,  and  deep  blue  sky,  all 


Dolph  Heyliger  173 

mingling  in  summer  beauty  before  one;  all  this,  though 
never  cloying  in  the  enjoyment,  would  be  but  tedious 
in  narration. 

When  encamped  by  the  waterside,  some  of  the  party 
would  go  into  the  woods  and  hunt;  others  would  fish: 
sometimes  they  would  amuse  themselves  by  shooting 
at  a  mark,  by  leaping,  by  running,  by  wrestling;  and 
Dolph  gained  great  favor  in  the  eyes  of  Antony  Vander 
Heyden,  by  his  skill  and  adroitness  in  all  these  exercises; 
which  the  Heer  considered  as  the  highest  of  manly 
accomplishments. 

Thus  did  they  coast  joUily  on,  choosing  only  the 
pleasant  hours  for  voyaging;  sometimes  in  the  cool 
morning  dawn,  sometimes  in  the  sober  evening  twi- 
light, and  sometimes  when  the  moonshine  spangled 
the  crisp  curling  waves  that  whispered  along  the  sides 
of  their  little  bark.  Never  had  Dolph  felt  so  completely 
in  his  element;  never  had  he  met  with  anything  so 
completely  to  his  taste  as  this  wild,  haphazard  life. 
He  was  the  very  man  to  second  Antony  Vander  Heyden 
in  his  rambling  humors,  and  gained  continually  on  his 
affections.  The  heart  of  the  old  bushwhacker  yearned 
towards  the  young  man,  who  seemed  thus  growing  up 
in  his  own  likeness;  and  as  they  approached  to  the  end 
of  their  voyage,  he  could  not  help  inquiring  a  little  into 
his  history.  Dolph  frankly  told  him  his  course  of  life, 
his  severe  medical  studies,  his  little  proficiency,  and  his 
very  dubious  prospects.  The  Heer  was  shocked  to  find 
that  such  amazing  talents  and  accomplishments  were 
to  be  cramped  and  buried  under  a  doctor's  wig.  He  had 
a  sovereign  contempt  for  the  healing  art,  having  never 


174  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

had  any  other  physician  than  the  butcher.  He  bore  a 
mortal  grudge  to  all  kinds  of  study  also,  ever  since  he 
had  been  flogged  about  an  unintelligible  book  when  he 
was  a  boy.  But  to  think  that  a  young  fellow  like  Dolph, 
of  such  wonderful  abilities,  who  could  shoot,  fish,  run, 
jump,  ride,  and  wrestle,  should  be  obliged  to  roll  pills, 
and  administer  juleps  for  a  living — 'twas  monstrous! 
He  told  Dolph  never  to  despair,  but  to  "throw  physic 
to  the  dogs;"  for  a  young  fellow  of  his  prodigious 
talents  could  never  fail  to  make  his  way.  "As  you 
seem  to  have  no  acquaintance  in  Albany,"  said  Heer 
Antony,  "you  shall  go  home  with  me,  and  remain  under 
my  roof  until  you  can  look  about  you;  and  in  the 
meantime  we  can  take  an  occasional  bout  at  shooting 
and  fishing,  for  it  is  a  pity  that  such  talents  should  lie 
idle." 

Dolph,  who  was  at  the  mercy  of  chance,  was  not  hard 
to  be  persuaded.  Indeed,  on  turning  over  matters  in 
his  mind,  which  he  did  very  sagely  and  deliberately, 
he  could  not  but  think  that  Antony  Vander  Heyden  was, 
"somehow  or  other,"  connected  with  the  story  of  the 
haunted  house;  that  the  misadventure  in  the  High- 
lands, which  had  thrown  them  so  strangely  together, 
was,  "somehow  or  other,"  to  work  out  something  good: 
in  short,  there  is  nothing  so  convenient  as  this  "some- 
how or  other"  way  of  accommodating  one's  self  to  cir- 
cumstances; it  is  the  main  stay  of  a  heedless  actor  and 
tardy  reasoner,  like  Dolph  Heyliger;  and  he  who  can, 
in  this  loose,  easy  way,  link  foregone  evil  to  anticipated 
good,  possesses  a  secret  of  happiness  almost  equal  to 
the  philosopher's  stone. 


Dolph  Heyliger  175 

On  their  arrival  at  Albany,  the  sight  of  Dolph's  com- 
panion seemed  to  cause  universal  satisfaction.  Many 
were  the  greetings  at  the  riverside,  and  the  salutations 
in  the  streets;  the  dogs  bounded  before  him;  the  boys 
whooped  as  he  passed;  everybody  seemed  to  know 
Antony  Vander  Heyden.  Dolph  followed  on  in  silence, 
admiring  the  neatness  of  this  worthy  burgh;  for  in 
those  days  Albany  was  in  all  its  glory,  and  inhabited 
almost  exclusively  by  the  descendants  of  the  original 
Dutch  settlers,  not  having  as  yet  been  discovered  and 
colonized  by  the  restless  people  of  New  England. 
Everything  was  quiet  and  orderly;  everything  was 
conducted  calmly  and  leisurely;  no  hurry,  no  bustle,  no 
struggling  and  scrambling  for  existence.  The  grass 
grew  about  the  unpaved  streets,  and  relieved  the  eye 
by  its  refreshing  verdure.  Tall  sycamores  or  pendent 
willows  shaded  the  houses,  with  caterpillars  swinging, 
in  long  silken  strings,  from  their  fine  branches;  or 
moths  fluttering  about  like  coxcombs,  in  joy  at  their 
gay  transformation.  The  houses  were  built  in  the  old 
Dutch  style,  with  the  gable  ends  towards  the  street. 
The  thrifty  housewife  was  seated  on  a  bench  before  her 
door,  in  close-crimped  cap,  bright  flowered  gown,  and 
white  apron,  busily  employed  In  knitting.  The  hus- 
band smoked  his  pipe  on  the  opposite  bench,  and  the 
little  pet  negro  girl,  seated  on  the  step  at  her  mistress's 
feet,  was  industriously  plying  her  needle.  The  swal- 
lows sported  about  the  eaves,  or  skimmed  along  the 
streets,  and  brought  back  some  rich  booty  for  their 
clamorous  young;  and  the  little  housekeeping  wren 
flew  in  and  out  of  a  Lilliputian  house,  or  an  old  hat 


176  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

nailed  against  the  wall.  The  cows  were  coming  home, 
lowing  through  the  streets,  to  be  milked  at  their  owner's 
door;  and  if,  perchance,  there  were  any  loiterers,  some 
negro  urchin,  with  a  long  goad,  was  gently  urging  them 
homewards. 

As  Dolph's  companion  passed  on,  he  received  a  tran- 
quil nod  from  the  burghers,  and  a  friendly  word  from 
their  wives;  all  calling  him  familiarly  by  the  name 
of  Antony;  for  it  was  the  custom  in  this  stronghold  of 
the  patriarchs,  where  they  had  all  grown  up  together 
from  childhood,  to  call  each  other  by  the  Christian 
name.  The  Heer  did  not  pause  to  have  his  usual  jokes 
with  them,  for  he  was  impatient  to  reach  his  home. 
At  length  they  arrived  at  his  mansion.  It  was  of  some 
magnitude,  in  the  Dutch  style,  with  large  iron  figures 
on  the  gables,  that  gave  the  date  of  its  erection,  and 
showed  that  it  had  been  built  in  the  earliest  times  of 
the  settlement. 

The  news  of  Heer  Antony's  arrival  had  preceded  him, 
and  the  whole  household  was  on  the  lookout.  A  crew 
of  negroes,  large  and  small,  had  collected  in  front  of 
the  house  to  receive  him.  The  old,  white-headed  ones, 
who  had  grown  grey  in  his  service,  grinned  for  joy,  and 
made  many  awkward  bows  and  grimaces,  and  the  little 
ones  capered  about  his  knees.  But  the  most  happy 
being  in  the  household  was  a  little,  plump,  blooming 
lass,  his  only  child,  and  the  darling  of  his  heart.  She 
came  bounding  out  of  the  house;  but  the  sight  of  a 
strange  young  man  with  her  father  called  up,  for  a 
moment,  all  the  bashfulncss  of  a  homebred  damsel. 
Dolph  gazed  at  her  with  wonder  and  delight;    never 


Dolph  Heyliger  177 

had  he  seen,  as  he  thought,  anything  so  comely  in  the 
shape  of  woman.  She  was  dressed  in  the  good  old  Dutch 
taste,  with  long  stays,  and  full,  short  petticoats,  so 
admirably  adapted  to  show  and  set  off  the  female  form. 
Her  hair,  turned  up  under  a  small  round  cap,  displayed 
the  fairness  of  her  forehead;  she  had  fine,  blue,  laugh- 
ing eyes;  a  trim,  slender  waist,  and  soft  swell — but,  in 
a  word,  she  was  a  little  Dutch  divinity;  and  Dolph, 
who  never  stopped  half  way  in  a  new  impulse,  fell 
desperately  in  love  with  her. 

Dolph  was  now  ushered  into  the  house  with  a  hearty 
welcome.  In  the  interior  was  a  mingled  display  of  Heer 
Antony's  taste  and  habits,  and  of  the  opulence  of  his 
predecessors.  The  chambers  were  furnished  with  good 
old  mahogany;  the  beaufets  and  cupboards  glittered 
with  embossed  silver  and  painted  china.  Over  the 
parlor  fireplace  was,  as  usual,  the  family  coat  of  arms, 
painted  and  framed:  above  which  was  a  long  duck 
fowling  piece,  flanked  by  an  Indian  pouch,  and  a 
powderhorn.  The  room  was  decorated  with  many 
Indian  articles,  such  as  pipes  of  peace,  tomahawks, 
scalping  knives,  hunting  pouches,  and  belts  of  wam- 
pum; and  there  were  various  kinds  of  fishing  tackle, 
and  two  or  three  fowling  pieces  in  the  corners.  The 
household  affairs  seemed  to  be  conducted.  In  some 
measure,  after  the  master's  humors;  corrected,  perhaps, 
by  a  little  quiet  management  of  the  daughter's.  There 
was  a  great  degree  of  patriarchal  simplicity  and  good- 
humored  indulgence.  The  negroes  came  into  the  room 
without  being  called,  merely  to  look  at  their  master, 
and  hear  of  his  adventures;   they  would  stand  listening 


178  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

at  the  door  until  he  had  finished  a  story,  and  then  go 
off  on  a  broad  grin,  to  repeat  it  in  the  kitchen.  A  couple 
of  pet  negro  children  were  playing  about  the  floor  with 
the  dogs,  and  sharing  with  them  their  bread  and  butter. 
All  the  domestics  looked  hearty  and  happy;  and  when 
the  table  was  set  for  the  evening  repast,  the  variety  and 
abundance  of  good  household  luxuries  bore  testimony 
to  the  open-handed  liberality  of  the  Heer,  and  the  no- 
table housewifery  of  his  daughter. 

In  the  evening  there  dropped  in  several  of  the  worthies 
of  the  place,  the  Van  Rennsellaers,  and  the  Ganse- 
voorts,  and  the  Rosebooms,  and  others  of  Antony 
Vander  Heyden's  intimates,  to  hear  an  account  of  his 
expedition,  for  he  was  the  Sindbad  of  Albany,  and  his 
exploits  and  adventures  were  favorite  topics  of  conversa- 
tion among  the  inhabitants.  While  these  sat  gossiping 
together  about  the  door  of  the  hall,  and  telling  long 
twilight  stories,  Dolph  was  cosily  seated,  entertaining 
the  daughter,  on  a  window  bench.  He  had  already  got 
on  intimate  terms,  for  those  were  not  times  of  false 
reserve  and  idle  ceremony;  and,  besides,  there  is  some- 
thing wonderfully  propitious  to  a  lover's  suit,  in  the 
delightful  dusk  of  a  long  summer  evening;  it  gives  cour- 
age to  the  most  timid  tongue,  and  hides  the  blushes  of 
the  bashful.  The  stars  above  twinkled  brightly,  and 
now  and  then  a  firefly  streamed  his  transient  light  be- 
fore the  window,  or,  wandering  into  the  room,  flew 
gleaming  about  the  ceiling. 

What  Dolph  whispered  in  her  ear  that  long  summer 
evening  it  is  impossible  to  say;  his  words  were  so  low 
and  indistinct  that  they  never  reached  the  ear  of   the 


Dolph  Heyliger  179 

historian.  It  is  probable,  however,  that  they  were  to 
the  purpose,  for  he  had  a  natural  talent  at  pleasing  the 
sex,  and  was  never  long  in  company  with  a  petticoat, 
without  paying  proper  court  to  it. 

In  the  meantime  the  visitors,  one  by  one,  departed; 
Antony  Vander  Heyden,  who  had  fairly  talked  himself 
silent,  sat  nodding  alone  in  his  chair  by  the  door,  when 
he  was  suddenly  aroused  by  a  hearty  salute  with  which 
Dolph  Heyliger  had  unguardedly  rounded  off  one  of 
his  periods,  and  which  echoed  through  the  still  chamber 
like  the  report  of  a  pistol.  The  Heer  started  up,  rubbed 
his  eyes,  called  for  lights,  and  observed  that  it  was  high 
time  to  go  to  bed,  though,  on  parting  for  the  night,  he 
squeezed  Dolph  heartily  by  the  hand,  looked  kindly  in 
his  face,  and  shook  his  head  knowingly,  for  the  Heer 
well  remembered  what  he  himself  had  been  at  the 
youngster's  age. 

The  chamber  in  which  our  hero  was  lodged  was 
spacious,  and  panelled  with  oak.  It  was  furnished  with 
clothespresses,  and  mighty  chests  of  drawers,  well 
waxed,  and  glittering  with  brass  ornaments.  These 
contained  ample  stock  of  family  linen,  for  the  Dutch 
housewives  had  always  a  laudable  pride  in  showing  off 
their  household  treasures  to  strangers. 

Dolph's  mind,  however,  was  too  full  to  take  particu- 
lar notice  of  the  objects  around  him;  yet  he  could  not 
help  continually  comparing  the  free,  open-hearted 
cheeriness  of  this  establishment,  with  the  starveling, 
sordid,  joyless  housekeeping  at  Doctor  Knipperhausen's. 
Still  something  marred  the  enjoyment;  the  idea  that 
he  must  take  leave  of  his  hearty  host  and  pretty  hostess, 


i8o  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

and  cast  himself  once  more  adrift  upon  the  world.  To 
linger  here  would  be  folly;  he  should  only  get  deeper 
in  love,  and  for  a  poor  varlet,  like  himself,  to  aspire  to 
the  daughter  of  the  great  Heer  Vander  Heyden — it  was 
madness  to  think  of  such  a  thing.  The  very  kindness 
that  the  girl  had  shown  towards  him,  prompted  him, 
on  reflection,  to  hasten  his  departure;  it  would  be  a 
poor  return  for  the  frank  hospitality  of  his  host,  to 
entangle  his  daughter's  heart  in  an  injudicious  attach- 
ment. In  a  word,  Dolph  was  like  many  other  young 
reasoners,  of  exceeding  good  hearts,  and  giddy  heads, 
who  think  after  they  act,  and  act  differently  from  what 
they  think;  who  make  excellent  determinations  over 
night,  and  forget  to  keep  them  the  next  morning. 

"This  is  a  fine  conclusion,  truly,  of  my  voyage," 
said  he,  as  he  almost  buried  himself  in  a  sumptuous 
feather  bed,  and  drew  the  fresh  white  sheets  up  to  his 
chin.  "Here  am  I,  instead  of  finding  a  bag  of  money 
to  carry  home,  launched  in  a  strange  place,  with  scarcely 
a  stiver  in  my  pocket,  and,  what  is  worse,  have  jumped 
ashore  up  to  my  very  ears  in  love  into  the  bargain. 
However,"  added  he,  after  some  pause,  stretching  him- 
self, and  turning  himself  in  bed,  "I'm  in  good  quarters 
for  the  present,  at  least,  so  I'll  e'en  enjoy  the  present 
moment,  and  let  the  next  take  care  of  itself;  I  dare  say 
all  will  work  out,  'somehow  or  other,'  for  the  best." 

As  he  said  these  words,  he  reached  out  his  hand  to 
extinguish  the  candle,  when  he  was  suddenly  struck 
with  astonishment  and  dismay,  for  he  thought  he  be- 
held the  phantom  of  the  haunted  house  staring  on  him 
from  a  dusky  part  of  the  chamber.    A  second  look  reas- 


Becalmed 


Dolph  Heyllger  i8i 

sured  him,  as  he  perceived  that  what  he  had  taken  for 
a  spectre  was,  in  fact,  nothing  but  a  Flemish  portrait, 
hanging  in  a  shadowy  corner,  just  behind  a  clothes- 
press.  It  was,  however,  the  precise  representation  of 
his  nightly  visitor.  The  same  cloak  and  belted  jerkin, 
the  same  grizzled  beard  and  fixed  eye,  the  same  broad 
slouched  hat,  with  a  feather  hanging  over  one  side. 
Dolph  now  called  to  mind  the  resemblance  he  had  fre- 
quently remarked  between  his  host  and  the  old  man  of 
the  haunted  house,  and  was  fully  convinced  they  were 
in  some  way  connected,  and  that  some  especial  destiny 
had  governed  his  voyage.  He  lay  gazing  on  the  por- 
trait with  almost  as  much  awe  as  he  had  gazed  on  the 
ghostly  original,  until  the  shrill  house-clock  warned 
him  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour.  He  put  out  the  light, 
but  remained  for  a  long  time  turning  over  these  curious 
circumstances  and  coincidences  in  his  mind,  until  he 
fell  asleep.  His  dreams  partook  of  the  nature  of  his 
waking  thoughts.  He  fancied  that  he  still  lay  gazing  on 
the  picture,  until,  by  degrees,  it  became  animated;  that 
the  figure  descended  from  the  wall,  and  walked  out  of 
the  room,  that  he  followed  it,  and  found  himself  by  the 
well,  to  which  the  old  man  pointed,  smiled  on  him,  and 
disappeared. 

In  the  morning,  when  he  waked,  he  found  his  host 
standing  by  his  bedside,  who  gave  him  a  hearty  morn- 
ing's salutation,  and  asked  him  how  he  had  slept. 
Dolph  answered  cheerily,  but  took  occasion  to  inquire 
about  the  portrait  that  hung  against  the  wall.  "Ah," 
said  Heer  Antony,  "that's  a  portrait  of  old  Killian 
Vander  Spiegel,  once  a  burgomaster  of  Amsterdam,  who. 


1 82  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

on  some  popular  troubles,  abandoned  Holland,  and 
came  over  to  the  province  during  the  government  of 
Peter  Stuyvesant.  He  was  my  ancestor  by  the  mother's 
side,  and  an  old  miserly  curmudgeon  he  was.  When 
the  English  took  possession  of  New  Amsterdam,  in 
1664,  he  retired  into  the  country.  He  fell  into  a  melan- 
choly, apprehending  that  his  wealth  would  be  taken 
from  him,  and  he  come  to  beggary.  He  turned  all  his 
property  into  cash,  and  used  to  hide  it  away.  He  was 
for  a  year  or  two  concealed  in  various  places,  fancying 
himself  sought  after  by  the  English,  to  strip  him  of  his 
wealth;  and  finally  was  found  dead  in  his  bed  one 
morning,  without  any  one  being  able  to  discover  where 
he  had  concealed  the  greater  part  of  his  money." 

When  his  host  had  left  the  room,  Dolph  remained 
for  some  time  lost  in  thought.  His  whole  mind  was 
occupied  by  what  he  had  heard.  Vander  Spiegel  was 
his  mother's  family  name;  and  he  recollected  to  have 
heard  her  speak  of  this  very  Killian  Vander  Spiegel  as 
one  of  her  ancestors.  He  had  heard  her  say,  too,  that 
her  father  was  Killian's  rightful  heir,  only  that  the  old 
man  died  without  leaving  anything  to  be  inherited. 
It  now  appeared  that  Hecr  Antony  was  likewise  a 
descendant,  and  perhaps  an  heir,  also,  of  this  poor  rich 
man,  and  that  thus  the  Heyligers  and  the  \'ander 
Heydens  were  remotely  connected.  "What,"  thought 
he,  "if,  after  all,  this  is  the  interpretation  of  my  dream, 
that  this  is  the  way  I  am  to  make  my  fortune  by  this 
voyage  to  Albany,  and  that  I  am  to  find  the  old  man's 
hidden  wealth  in  the  bottom  of  that  wcll.^  But  what  an 
odd  roundabout  mode  of  communicating  the  matter! 


Dolph  Heyliger  183 

Why  the  plague  could  not  the  old  goblin  have  told  me 
about  the  well  at  once,  without  sending  me  all  the  way 
to  Albany,  to  hear  a  story  that  was  to  send  me  all  the 
way  back  again?" 

These  thoughts  passed  through  his  mind  while  he 
was  dressing.  He  descended  the  stairs,  full  of  perplex- 
ity, when  the  bright  face  of  Marie  Vander  Heyden 
suddenly  beamed  in  smiles  upon  him,  and  seemed  to 
give  him  a  clue  to  the  whole  mystery.  "After  all," 
thought  he,  "the  old  goblin  is  in  the  right.  If  I  am 
to  get  his  wealth,  he  means  that  I  shall  marry  his 
pretty  descendant;  thus  both  branches  of  the  family 
will  be  again  united,  and  the  property  go  on  in  the 
proper  channel." 

No  sooner  did  this  idea  enter  his  head,  than  it  carried 
conviction  with  it.  He  was  now  all  impatience  to  hurry 
back  and  secure  the  treasure,  which,  he  did  not  doubt, 
lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  well,  and  which  he  feared  every 
moment  might  be  discovered  by  some  other  person. 
"Who  knows,"  thought  he,  "but  this  night-walking 
old  fellow  of  the  haunted  house  may  be  in  the  habit  of 
haunting  every  visitor,  and  may  give  a  hint  to  some 
shrewder  fellow  than  myself,  who  will  take  a  shorter 
cut  to  the  well  than  by  the  way  of  Albany  ?"  He  wished 
a  thousand  times  that  the  babbling  old  ghost  was  laid 
in  the  Red  Sea,  and  his  rambling  portrait  with  him.  He 
was  in  a  perfect  fever  to  depart.  Two  or  three  days 
elapsed  before  any  opportunity  presented  for  returning 
down  the  river.  They  were  ages  to  Dolph,  notwith- 
standing that  he  was  basking  in  the  smiles  of  the  pretty 
Marie,  and  daily  getting  more  and  more  enamored. 


184  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

At  length  the  very  sloop  from  which  he  had  been 
knocked  overboard,  prepared  to  make  sail,  Dolph 
made  an  awkward  apology  to  his  host  for  his  sudden 
departure.  Antony  Vander  Heyden  was  sorely  aston- 
ished. He  had  concerted  half  a  dozen  excursions  into 
the  wilderness;  and  his  Indians  were  actually  preparing 
for  a  grand  expedition  to  one  of  the  lakes.  He  took 
Dolph  aside,  and  exerted  his  eloquence  to  get  him  to 
abandon  all  thoughts  of  business  and  to  remain  with 
him,  but  in  vain;  and  he  at  length  gave  up  the  attempt, 
observing,  "that  it  was  a  thousand  pities  so  fine  a  young 
man  should  throw  himself  away."  Heer  Antony,  how- 
ever, gave  him  a  hearty  shake  by  the  hand  at  parting, 
with  a  favorite  fowling  piece,  and  an  invitation  to  come 
to  his  house  whenever  he  revisited  Albany.  The  pretty 
little  Marie  said  nothing;  but  as  he  gave  her  a  farewell 
kiss,  her  dimpled  cheek  turned  pale,  and  a  tear  stood 
in  her  eye. 

Dolph  sprang  lightly  on  board  of  the  vessel.  They 
hoisted  sail;  the  wind  was  fair;  they  soon  lost  sight  of 
Albany,  its  green  hills,  and  embowered  islands.  They 
were  wafted  gaily  past  the  Kaatskill  mountains,  whose 
fairy  heights  were  bright  and  cloudless.  They  passed 
prosperously  through  the  Highlands,  without  any 
molestation  from  the  Dunderberg  goblin  and  his  ciew; 
they  swept  on  across  Haverstraw  Bay,  and  by  Croton 
Point,  and  through  the  Tappan  Zee,  and  under  the 
Palisadoes,  until,  in  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day,  they 
saw  the  promontory  of  Hoboken,  hanging  like  a  cloud 
in  the  air;  and,  shortly  after,  the  roofs  of  the  Manhat- 
toes  rising  out  of  the  water. 


Dolph  Heyliger  185 

Dolph's  first  care  was  to  repair  to  his  mother's  house; 
for  he  was  continually  goaded  by  the  idea  of  the  un- 
easiness she  must  experience  on  his  account.  He  was 
puzzling  his  brains,  as  he  went  along,  to  think  how  he 
should  account  for  his  absence,  without  betraying  the 
secrets  of  the  haunted  house.  In  the  midst  of  these 
cogitations,  he  entered  the  street  in  which  his  mother's 
house  was  situated,  when  he  was  thunderstruck  at  be- 
holding it  a  heap  of  ruins. 

There  had  evidently  been  a  great  fire,  which  had 
destroyed  several  large  houses,  and  the  humble  dwelling 
of  the  poor  Dame  Heyliger  had  been  involved  in  the 
conflagration.  The  walls  were  not  so  completely 
destroyed,  but  that  Dolph  could  distinguish  some 
traces  of  the  scene  of  his  childhood.  The  fireplace, 
about  which  he  had  often  played,  still  remained,  orna- 
mented with  Dutch  tiles,  illustrating  passages  in  Bible 
history,  on  which  he  had  many  a  time  gazed  with  ad- 
miration. Among  the  rubbish  lay  the  wreck  of  the 
good  dame's  elbow  chair,  from  which  she  had  given 
him  so  many  a  wholesome  precept;  and  hard  by  it  was 
the  family  Bible,  with  brass  clasps;  now,  alas!  reduced 
almost  to  a  cinder. 

For  a  moment  Dolph  was  overcome  by  this  dismal 
sight,  for  he  was  seized  with  the  fear  that  his  mother 
had  perished  in  the  flames.  He  was  relieved,  however, 
from  this  horrible  apprehension,  by  one  of  the  neighbors, 
who  happened  to  come  by  and  informed  him  that  his 
mother  was  yet  alive. 

The  good  woman  had,  indeed,  lost  everything  by 
this  unlooked-for  calamity;    for  the  populace  had  been 


i86  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

so  intent  upon  saving  the  fine  furniture  of  her  rich 
neighbors,  that  the  little  tenement,  and  the  little  all  of 
poor  Dame  Heyliger,  had  been  suffered  to  consume 
without  interruption;  nay,  had  it  not  been  for  the  gal- 
lant assistance  of  her  old  crony,  Peter  de  Groodt,  the 
worthy  dame  and  her  cat  might  have  shared  the  fate 
of  their  habitation. 

As  it  was,  she  had  been  overcome  with  fright  and 
affliction,  and  lay  ill  in  body  and  sick  at  heart.  The 
public,  however,  had  showed  her  its  wonted  kindness. 
The  furniture  of  her  rich  neighbors  being,  as  far  as 
possible,  rescued  from  the  flames;  themselves  duly  and 
ceremoniously  visited  and  condoled  with  on  the  injury 
of  their  property,  and  their  ladies  commiserated  on  the 
agitation  of  their  nerves;  the  public,  at  length,  began 
to  recollect  something  about  poor  Dame  Hej^liger.  She 
forthwith  became  again  a  subject  of  universal  sympathy; 
everybody  pitied  her  more  than  ever;  and  if  pity  could 
but  have  been  coined  into  cash — good  Lord!  how  rich 
she  would  have  been! 

It  was  now  determined,  in  good  earnest,  that  some- 
thing ought  to  be  done  for  her  without  delay.  The 
dominie,  therefore,  put  up  prayers  for  her  on  Sunday, 
in  which  all  the  congregation  joined  most  heartily. 
Even  Cobus  Groesbeek,  the  alderman,  and  Mynheer 
Milledollar,  the  great  Dutch  merchant,  stood  up  in 
their  pews,  and  did  not  spare  their  voices  on  the  occa- 
sion; and  it  was  thought  the  prayers  of  such  great  men 
could  not  but  have  tlicir  due  weight.  Doctor  Knipper- 
hausen,  too,  visited  her  professionally,  and  gave  her 
abundance  of  advice  gratis,  and  was  universally  lauded 


Dolph  Heyliger  187 

for  his  charity.  As  to  her  old  friend,  Peter  de  Groodt, 
he  was  a  poor  man,  whose  pity,  and  prayers,  and  advice, 
could  be  of  but  little  avail,  so  he  gave  her  all  that  was 
in  his  power — he  gave  her  shelter. 

To  the  humble  dwelling  of  Peter  de  Groodt,  then,  did 
Dolph  turn  his  steps.  On  his  way  thither,  he  recalled 
all  the  tenderness  and  kindness  of  his  simple-hearted 
parent,  her  indulgence  of  his  errors,  her  blindness  to  his 
faults;  and  then  he  bethought  himself  of  his  own  idle, 
harum-scarum  life.  "I've  been  a  sad  scapegrace,"  said 
Dolph,  shaking  his  head  sorrowfully.  "  I  've  been  a  com- 
plete sink-pocket,  that's  the  truth  of  it! — But,"  added 
he  briskly,  and  clasping  his  hands,  "only  let  her  live — 
only  let  her  live — and  I  '11  show  myself  indeed  a  son!" 

As  Dolph  approached  the  house  he  met  Peter  de 
Groodt  coming  out  of  it.  The  old  man  started  back 
aghast,  doubting  whether  it  was  not  a  ghost  that  stood 
before  him.  It  being  bright  daylight,  however,  Peter 
soon  plucked  up  heart,  satisfied  that  no  ghost  dare 
show  his  face  in  such  clear  sunshine.  Dolph  now 
learned  from  the  worthy  sexton  the  consternation  and 
rumor  to  which  his  mysterious  disappearance  had  given 
rise.  It  had  been  universally  believed  that  he  had  been 
spirited  away  by  those  hobgoblin  gentry  that  infested 
the  haunted  house;  and  old  Abraham  Vandozer,  who 
lived  by  the  great  buttonwood  trees,  near  the  three- 
mile  stone,  affirmed,  that  he  had  heard  a  terrible  noise 
in  the  air,  as  he  was  going  home  late  at  night,  which 
seemed  just  as  if  a  flock  of  wild  geese  were  overhead, 
passing  off  towards  the  northward.  The  haunted  house 
was,  in  consequence,  looked  upon  with  ten  times  more 


1 88  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

awe  than  ever;  nobody  would  venture  to  pass  a  night 
in  it  for  the  world,  and  even  the  doctor  had  ceased  to 
make  his  expeditions  to  it  in  the  daytime. 

It  required  some  preparation  before  Dolph's  return 
could  be  made  known  to  his  mother,  the  poor  soul  hav- 
ing bewailed  him  as  lost;  and  her  spirits  having  been 
sorely  broken  down  by  a  number  of  comforters,  who 
daily  cheered  her  with  stories  of  ghosts,  and  of  people 
carried  away  by  the  devil.  He  found  her  confined  to 
her  bed,  with  the  other  member  of  the  Heyliger  family, 
the  good  dame's  cat,  purring  beside  her,  but  sadly 
singed,  and  utterly  despoiled  of  those  whiskers  which 
were  the  glory  of  her  physiognomy.  The  poor  woman 
threw  her  arms  about  Dolph's  neck:  "My  boy!  my 
boy!  art  thou  still  alive."*"  For  a  time  she  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  all  her  losses  and  troubles  in  her  joy  at 
his  return.  Even  the  sage  grimalkin  showed  indubita- 
ble signs  of  joy  at  the  return  of  the  youngster.  She 
saw,  perhaps,  that  they  were  a  forlorn  and  undone 
family,  and  felt  a  touch  of  that  kindliness  which  fellow- 
suflFerers  only  know.  But,  in  truth,  cats  are  a  slandered 
people;  they  have  more  affection  in  them  than  the 
world  commonly  gives  them  credit  for. 

The  good  dame's  eyes  glistened  as  she  saw  one  being, 
at  least,  beside  herself,  rejoiced  at  her  son's  return. 
"Tib  knows  thee!  poor  dumb  beast!"  said  she,  smooth- 
ing down  the  mottled  coat  of  her  favorite;  then  recol- 
lecting herself,  with  a  melancholy  shake  of  the  head, 
"Ah,  my  poor  Dolph!"  exclaimed  she,  "thy  mother 
can  help  thee  no  longer!  She  can  no  longer  help  her- 
self!   What  will  become  of  thee,  my  poor  boy!" 


Dolph  Heyliger  189 

"Mother,"  said  Dolph,  "don't  talk  In  that  strain; 
I've  been  too  long  a  charge  upon  you;  it's  now  my 
part  to  take  care  of  you  in  your  old  age.  Come! 
be  of  good  heart!  you,  and  I,  and  Tib  will  all  see 
better  days.  I'm  here,  you  see,  young,  and  sound, 
and  hearty;  then  don't  let  us  despair;  I  dare  say 
things  will  all,  somehow  or  other,  turn  out  for  the 
best." 

While  this  scene  was  going  on  with  the  Heyliger 
family,  the  news  was  carried  to  Doctor  Knipperhausen, 
of  the  safe  return  of  his  disciple.  The  little  doctor 
scarce  knew  whether  to  rejoice  or  be  sorry  at  the  tidings. 
He  was  happy  at  having  the  fond  reports  which  had 
prevailed  concerning  his  country  mansion  thus  dis- 
proved; but  he  grieved  at  having  his  disciple,  of  whom 
he  had  supposed  himself  fairly  disencumbered,  thus 
drifting  back,  a  heavy  charge  upon  his  hands.  While 
balancing  between  these  two  feelings,  he  was  determined 
by  the  counsels  of  Frau  Ilsy,  who  advised  him  to  take 
advantage  of  the  truant  absence  of  the  youngster,  and 
shut  the  door  upon  him  forever. 

At  the  hour  of  bedtime,  therefore,  when  it  was  sup- 
posed the  recreant  disciple  would  seek  his  old  quarters, 
everything  was  prepared  for  his  reception.  Dolph, 
having  talked  his  mother  into  a  state  of  tranquillity, 
sought  the  mansion  of  his  quondam  master,  and  raised 
the  knocker  with  a  faltering  hand.  Scarcely,  however, 
had  it  given  a  dubious  rap,  when  the  doctor's  head,  in 
a  red  nightcap,  popped  out  of  one  window,  and  the 
housekeeper's,  in  a  white  nightcap,  out  of  another. 
He  was  now  greeted  with  a  tremendous  volley  of  hard 


190  Stones  of  the  Hudson 

names  and  hard  language,  mingled  with  invaluable 
pieces  of  advice,  such  as  are  seldom  ventured  to  be 
given  excepting  to  a  friend  in  distress,  or  a  culprit  at 
the  bar.  In  a  few  moments,  not  a  window  in  the  street 
but  had  its  particular  nightcap,  listening  to  the  shrill 
treble  of  Frau  Ilsy,  and  the  guttural  croaking  of  Dr. 
Knipperhausen;  and  the  word  went  from  window  to 
window,  "Ah!  here's  Dolph  Heyliger  come  back,  and 
at  his  old  pranks  again."  In  short,  poor  Dolph  found 
he  was  likely  to  get  nothing  from  the  doctor  but  good 
advice,  a  commodity  so  abundant  as  even  to  be  thrown 
out  of  the  window;  so  he  was  fain  to  beat  a  retreat,  and 
take  up  his  quarters  for  the  night  under  the  lowly  roof 
of  honest  Peter  de  Groodt. 

The  next  morning,  bright  and  early,  Dolph  was  out 
at  the  haunted  house.  Everything  looked  just  as  he 
had  left  it.  The  fields  were  grass-grown  and  matted, 
and  appeared  as  if  nobody  had  traversed  them  since 
his  departure.  With  palpitating  heart  he  hastened  to 
the  well.  He  looked  down  into  it,  and  saw  that  it  was 
of  great  depth,  with  water  at  the  bottom.  He  had  pro- 
vided himself  with  a  strong  line,  such  as  the  fishermen 
use  on  the  banks  of  Newfoundland.  At  the  end  was  a 
heavy  plummet  and  a  large  fishhook.  With  this  he 
began  to  sound  the  bottom  of  the  well,  and  to  angle 
about  in  the  water.  The  water  was  of  some  depth; 
there  was  also  much  rubbish,  stones  from  the  top  hav- 
ing fallen  in.  Several  times  his  hook  got  entangled, 
and  he  came  near  breaking  his  line.  Now  and  then, 
too,  he  hauled  up  mere  trash,  such  as  the  skull  of  a 
horse,    an    iron    hoop,    and    a    shattered    iron-bound 


Dolph  Heyliger  191 

bucket.  He  had  now  been  several  hours  employed 
without  finding  anything  to  repay  his  trouble,  or  to 
encourage  him  to  proceed.  He  began  to  think  himself 
a  great  fool,  to  be  thus  decoyed  into  a  wild-goose-chase 
by  mere  dreams,  and  was  on  the  point  of  throwing  line 
and  all  into  the  well,  and  giving  up  all  further  angling. 

"One  more  cast  of  the  line,"  said  he,  "and  that  shall 
be  the  last."  As  he  sounded,  he  felt  the  plummet  slip, 
as  it  were  through  the  interstices  of  loose  stones;  and 
as  he  drew  back  the  line,  he  felt  that  the  hook  had  taken 
hold  of  something  heavy.  He  had  to  manage  his  line 
with  great  caution,  lest  it  should  be  broken  by  the 
strain  upon  it.  By  degrees  the  rubbish  which  lay  upon 
the  article  he  had  hooked  gave  way;  he  drew  it  to  the 
surface  of  the  water,  and  what  was  his  rapture  at  seeing 
something  like  silver  glittering  at  the  end  of  his  line! 
Almost  breathless  with  anxiety,  he  drew  it  up  to  the 
mouth  of  the  well,  surprised  at  its  great  weight,  and 
fearing  every  instant  that  his  hook  would  slip  from  its 
hold,  and  his  prize  tumble  again  to  the  bottom.  At 
length  he  landed  it  safe  beside  the  well.  It  was  a  great 
silver  porringer,  of  an  ancient  form,  richly  embossed, 
and  with  armorial  bearings  engraved  on  its  side,  simi- 
lar to  those  over  his  mother's  mantelpiece.  The  lid 
was  fastened  down  by  several  twists  of  wire;  Dolph 
loosened  them  with  a  trembling  hand,  and,  on  lifting 
the  lid,  behold!  the  vessel  was  filled  with  broad  golden 
pieces,  of  a  coinage  which  he  had  never  seen  before. 
It  was  evident  he  had  lit  on  the  place  where  Killian 
Vander  Spiegel  had  concealed  his  treasure. 

Fearful  of  being  seen  by  some  straggler,  he  cautiously 


192  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

retired,  and  buried  his  pot  of  money  in  a  secret  place. 
He  now  spread  terrible  stories  about  the  haunted  house, 
and  deterred  every  one  from  approaching  it,  while  he 
made  frequent  visits  to  it  in  stormy  days,  when  no  one 
was  stirring  in  the  neighboring  fields;  though,  to  tell 
the  truth,  he  did  not  care  to  venture  there  in  the  dark. 
For  once  in  his  life  he  was  diligent  and  industrious,  and 
followed  up  his  new  trade  of  angling  with  such  persever- 
ance and  success,  that  in  a  little  while  he  had  hooked 
up  wealth  enough  to  make  him,  in  those  moderate  days, 
a  rich  burgher  for  life. 

It  would  be  tedious  to  detail  minutely  the  rest  of  this 
story: — to  tell  how  he  gradually  managed  to  bring  his 
property  into  use  without  exciting  surprise  and  inquiry 
— how  he  satisfied  all  scruples  with  regard  to  retaining 
the  property,  and  at  the  same  time  gratified  his  own 
feelings,  by  marrying  the  pretty  Marie  Vander  Heyden 
— and  how  he  and  Heer  Antony  had  many  a  merry  and 
roving  expedition  together. 

I  must  not  omit  to  say,  however,  that  Dolph  took 
his  mother  home  to  live  with  him,  and  cherished  her 
in  her  old  days.  The  good  dame,  too,  had  the  satisfac- 
tion of  no  longer  hearing  her  son  made  the  theme  of 
censure;  on  the  contrary,  he  grew  daily  in  public 
esteem;  everybody  spoke  well  of  him  and  his  wines; 
and  the  lordliest  burgomaster  was  never  known  to 
decline  his  invitation  to  dinner.  Dolph  often  related, 
at  his  own  table,  the  wicked  pranks  which  had  once 
been  the  abhorrence  of  the  town;  but  they  were  now 
considered  excellent  jokes,  and  the  gravest  dignitary 
was  fain  to  hold  his  sides  when  listening  to  them.    No 


Dolph  Heyliger  193 

one  was  more  struck  with  Dolph's  increasing  merit  than 
his  old  master  the  doctor;  and  so  forgiving  was  Dolph, 
that  he  absolutely  employed  the  doctor  as  his  family 
physician,  only  taking  care  that  his  prescriptions  should 
be  always  thrown  out  of  the  window.  His  mother  had 
often  her  junto  of  old  cronies  to  take  a  snug  cup  of  tea 
with  her  in  her  comfortable  little  parlor;  and  Peter  de 
Groodt,  as  he  sat  by  the  fireside,  with  one  of  her  grand- 
children on  his  knee,  would  many  a  time  congratulate 
her  upon  her  son  turning  out  so  great  a  man;  upon 
which  the  good  old  soul  would  wag  her  head  with  exulta- 
tion, and  exclaim,  "Ah,  neighbor,  neighbor!  did  I  not 
say  that  Dolph  would  one  day  or  other  hold  up  his 
head  with  the  best  of  them?" 

Thus  did  Dolph  Heyliger  go  on,  cheerily  and  pros- 
perously, growing  merrier  as  he  grew  older  and  wiser, 
and  completely  falsifying  the  old  proverb  about  money 
got  over  the  devil's  back;  for  he  made  good  use  of  his 
wealth,  and  became  a  distinguished  citizen,  and  a  valua- 
ble member  of  the  community.  He  was  a  great  pro- 
moter of  public  institutions,  such  as  beefsteak  societies 
and  catch-clubs.  He  presided  at  all  public  dinners,  and 
was  the  first  that  introduced  turtle  from  the  West 
Indies.  He  improved  the  breed  of  race  horses  and 
gamecocks,  and  was  so  great  a  patron  of  modest  merit, 
that  any  one  who  could  sing  a  good  song,  or  tell  a  good 
story,  was  sure  to  find  a  place  at  his  table. 

He  was  a  member,  too,  of  the  corporation,  made 
several  laws  for  the  protection  of  game  and  oysters, 
and  bequeathed  to  the  board  a  large  silver  punch-bowl, 
made  out  of  the  identical  porringer  before  mentioned, 


194  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

and  which  is  in  the  possession  of  the  corporation  to  this 
very  day. 

Finally,  he  died,  in  a  florid  old  age,  of  an  apoplexy  at 
a  corporation  feast,  and  was  buried  with  great  honors 
in  the  yard  of  the  little  Dutch  church  in  Garden  Street, 
where  his  tombstone  may  still  be  seen,  with  a  modest 
epitaph  in  Dutch,  by  his  friend  Mynheer  Justus  Benson, 
an  ancient  and  excellent  poet  of  the  province. 

The  foregoing  tale  rests  on  better  authority  than 
most  tales  of  the  kind,  as  I  have  it  at  second  hand  from 
the  lips  of  Dolph  Heyliger  himself.  He  never  related  it 
till  towards  the  latter  part  of  his  life,  and  then  in  great 
confidence  (for  he  was  very  discreet),  to  a  few  of  his 
particular  cronies  at  his  own  table,  over  a  supernumer- 
ary bowl  of  punch;  and  strange  as  the  hobgoblin  parts 
of  the  story  may  seem,  there  never  was  a  single  doubt 
expressed  on  the  subject  by  any  of  his  guests.  It  may 
not  be  amiss,  before  concluding,  to  observe  that,  in 
addition  to  his  other  accomplishments,  Dolph  Heyliger 
was  noted  for  being  the  ablest  drawer  of  the  long  bow 
in  the  whole  province. 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE 


Tyl/'HOEVER  has  made  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson" 
must  remember  the  Kaatskill  Mountains.  They 
are  a  dismembered  branch  of  the  great  Appalachian 
family,  and  are  seen  away  to  the  west  of  the  river, 
swelling  up  to  a  noble  height,  and  lording  it  over  the 
surrounding  country.  Every  change  of  season,  every 
change  of  weather,  indeed  every  hour  of  the  day,  pro- 
duces some  change  in  the  magical  hues  and  shapes  of 
these  mountains,  and  they  are  regarded  by  all  the  good 
wives,  far  and  near,  as  perfect  barometers.  When  the 
weather  is  fair  and  settled,  they  are  clothed  in  blue  and 
purple,  and  print  their  bold  outlines  on  the  clear  even- 
ing sky;  but  sometimes,  when  the  rest  of  the  landscape 
is  cloudless,  they  will  gather  a  hood  of  grey  vapors  about 
their  summits,  which,  in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting 
sun,  will  glow  and  light  up  like  a  crown  of  glory. 

At  the  foot  of  these  fairy  mountains,  the  voyager 
may  have  descried  the  light  smoke  curling  up  from  a 
village,  whose  shingle  roofs  gleam  among  the  trees, 
just  where  the  blue  tints  of  the  upland  melt  away  into 
the  fresh  green  of  the  nearer  landscape.  It  is  a  little 
village  of  great  antiquity,  having  been  founded  by 
some  of  the  Dutch  colonists  in  the  early  times  of  the 
province,  just  about  the  beginning  of  the  government 

I9S 


196  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

of  the  good  Peter  Stuyvesant,  (may  he  rest  in  peace!) 
and  there  were  some  of  the  houses  of  the  original  set- 
tlers standing  within  a  few  years,  built  of  small  yellow 
bricks  brought  from  Holland,  having  latticed  windows 
and  gable  fronts,  surmounted  with  weathercocks. 

In  that  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these  very  houses 
(which,  to  tell  the  precise  truth,  was  sadly  time-worn 
and  weather-beaten),  there  lived  many  years  since, 
while  the  country  was  yet  a  province  of  Great  Britain, 
a  simple,  good-natured  fellow,  of  the  name  of  Rip  Van 
Winkle.  He  was  a  descendant  of  the  Van  Winkles  who 
figured  so  gallantly  in  the  chivalrous  days  of  Peter 
Stuyvesant,  and  accompanied  him  to  the  siege  of  Fort 
Christina.  He  inherited,  however,  but  little  of  the 
martial  character  of  his  ancestors.  I  have  observed 
that  he  was  a  simple,  good-natured  man;  he  was, 
moreover,  a  kind  neighbor,  and  an  obedient,  hen- 
pecked husband.  Indeed,  to  the  latter  circumstance 
might  be  owing  that  meekness  of  spirit  which  gained 
him  such  universal  popularity;  for  those  men  are  most 
apt  to  be  obsequious  and  conciliating  abroad,  who  are 
under  the  discipline  of  shrews  at  home.  Their  tempers, 
doubtless,  are  rendered  pliant  and  malleable  in  the 
fiery  furnace  of  domestic  tribulation,  and  a  curtain 
lecture  is  worth  all  the  sermons  in  the  world  for  teach- 
ing the  virtues  of  patience  and  long-suffering.  A 
termagant  wife  may,  therefore,  in  some  respects,  be 
considered  a  tolerable  blessing;  and  if  so,  Rip  Van 
Winkle  was  thrice  blessed. 

Certain  it  is,  that  he  was  a  great  favorite  among  all 
the  good  wives  of  the  village,  who,  as  usual  with  the 


Rip  Van  Winkle  197 

amiable  sex,  took  his  part  in  all  family  squabbles;  and 
never  failed,  whenever  they  talked  those  matters  over 
in  their  evening  gossipings,  to  lay  all  the  blame  on  Dame 
Van  Winkle.  The  children  of  the  village,  too,  would 
shout  with  joy  whenever  he  approached.  He  assisted 
at  their  sports,  made  their  playthings,  taught  them  to 
fly  kites  and  shoot  marbles,  and  told  them  long  stories 
of  ghosts,  witches,  and  Indians,  Whenever  he  went 
dodging  about  the  village,  he  was  surrounded  by  a  troop 
of  them,  hanging  on  his  skirts,  clambering  on  his  back, 
and  playing  a  thousand  tricks  on  him  with  impunity; 
and  not  a  dog  would  bark  at  him  throughout  the  neigh- 
borhood. 

The  great  error  in  Rip's  composition  was  an  insupera- 
ble aversion  to  all  kinds  of  profitable  labor.  It  could 
not  be  from  the  want  of  assiduity  or  perseverance;  for 
he  would  sit  on  a  wet  rock,  with  a  rod  as  long  and  heavy 
as  a  Tartar's  lance,  and  fish  all  day  without  a  murmur, 
even  though  he  should  not  be  encouraged  by  a  single 
nibble.  He  would  carry  a  fowling  piece  on  his  shoulder 
for  hours  together,  trudging  through  woods  and  swamps 
and  up  hill  and  down  dale,  to  shoot  a  few  squirrels  or 
wild  pigeons.  He  would  never  refuse  to  assist  a  neigh- 
bor even  in  the  roughest  toil,  and  was  a  foremost  man  at 
all  country  frolics  for  husking  Indian  corn,  or  building 
stone  fences;  the  women  of  the  village,  too,  used  to  em- 
ploy him  to  run  their  errands  and  to  do  such  little  odd 
jobs  as  their  less  obliging  husbands  would  not  do  for 
them.  In  a  word  Rip  was  ready  to  attend  to  anybody's 
business  but  his  own;  but  as  to  doing  family  duty,  and 
keeping  his  farm  in  order,  he  found  it  impossible. 


198  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

In  fact,  he  declared  it  was  of  no  use  to  work  on  his 
farm;  it  was  the  most  pestilent  little  piece  of  ground  in 
the  whole  country;  everything  about  it  went  wrong, 
and  would  go  wrong,  in  spite  of  him.  His  fences  were 
continually  falling  to  pieces;  his  cow  would  either  go 
astray,  or  get  among  the  cabbages;  weeds  were  sure 
to  grow  quicker  in  his  fields  than  anywhere  else;  the 
rain  always  made  a  point  of  setting  in  just  as  he  had 
some  outdoor  work  to  do;  so  that  though  his  patrimo- 
nial estate  had  dwindled  away  under  his  management, 
acre  by  acre,  until  there  was  little  more  left  than  a  mere 
patch  of  Indian  corn  and  potatoes,  yet  it  was  the  worst 
conditioned  farm  in  the  neighborhood. 

His  children,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild  as  if  they 
belonged  to  nobody.  His  son  Rip,  an  urchin  begotten 
in  his  own  likeness,  promised  to  inherit  the  habits,  with 
the  old  clothes  of  his  father.  He  was  generally  seen 
trooping  like  a  colt  at  his  mother's  heels,  equipped  in  a 
pair  of  his  father's  cast-off  galligaskins,  which  he  had 
much  ado  to  hold  up  with  one  hand,  as  a  fine  lady  does 
her  train  in  bad  weather. 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of  those  happy 
mortals,  of  foolish,  well-oiled  dispositions,  who  take  the 
world  easy,  eat  white  bread  or  brown,  whichever  can 
be  got  with  least  thought  or  trouble,  and  would  rather 
starve  on  a  penny  than  work  for  a  pound.  If  left  to  him- 
self, he  would  have  whistled  life  away  in  perfect  con- 
tentment; but  his  wife  kept  continually  dinning  in  his 
ears  about  his  idleness,  his  carelessness,  and  the  ruin 
he  was  bringing  on  his  family.  Morning,  noon,  and 
night,  her  tongue  was  incessantly  going  and  everything 


Rip  Van  Winkle  199 

he  said  or  did  was  sure  to  produce  a  torrent  of  house- 
hold eloquence.  Rip  had  but  one  way  of  replying  to  all 
lectures  of  the  kind,  and  that,  by  frequent  use,  had 
grown  into  a  habit.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  shook 
his  head,  cast  up  his  eyes,  but  said  nothing.  This, 
however,  always  provoked  a  fresh  volley  from  his  wife; 
so  that  he  was  fain  to  draw  off  his  forces,  and  take  to 
the  outside  of  the  house — the  only  side  which,  in  truth, 
belongs  to  a  henpecked  husband. 

Rip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog  Wolf,  who 
was  as  much  henpecked  as  his  master;  for  dame  Van 
Winkle  regarded  them  as  companions  in  idleness,  and 
even  looked  upon  Wolf  with  an  evil  eye,  as  the  cause  of 
his  master's  going  so  often  astray.  True  it  is,  in  all 
points  of  spirit  befitting  an  honorable  dog,  he  was  as 
courageous  an  animal  as  ever  scoured  the  woods — but 
what  courage  can  withstand  the  ever-during  and  all- 
besetting  terrors  of  a  woman's  tongue.?  The  moment 
Wolf  entered  the  house  his  crest  fell,  his  tail  drooped  to 
the  ground  or  curled  between  his  legs,  he  sneaked  about 
with  a  gallows  air,  casting  many  a  sidelong  glance  at 
Dame  Van  Winkle,  and  at  the  least  flourish  of  a  broom- 
stick or  ladle,  he  would  fly  to  the  door  with  yelping 
precipitation. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Rip  Van  Winkle  as 
years  of  matrimony  rolled  on;  a  tart  temper  never 
mellows  with  age,  and  a  sharp  tongue  is  the  only  edged 
tool  that  grows  keener  with  constant  use.  For  a  long 
while  he  used  to  console  himself,  when  driven  from 
home,  by  frequenting  a  kind  of  perpetual  club  of  the 
sages,  philosophers,  and  other  idle  personages  of  the 


200  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

village;  which  held  its  sessions  on  a  bench  before  a 
small  inn,  designated  by  a  rubicund  portrait  of  His 
Majesty  George  the  Third.  Here  they  used  to  sit  in 
the  shade  through  a  long  lazy  summer's  day,  talking 
listlessly  over  village  gossip,  or  telling  endless  sleepy 
stories  about  nothing.  But  it  would  have  been  worth 
any  statesman's  money  to  have  heard  the  profound 
discussions  that  sometimes  took  place,  when  by  chance 
an  old  newspaper  fell  into  their  hands  from  some  passing 
traveller.  How  solemnly  they  would  listen  to  the  con- 
tents, as  drawled  out  by  Derrick  Van  Bummel,  the 
schoolmaster,  a  dapper  learned  little  man,  who  was  not 
to  be  daunted  by  the  most  gigantic  word  in  the  diction- 
ary; and  how  sagely  they  would  deliberate  upon  public 
events  some  months  after  they  had  taken  place. 

The  opinions  of  this  junto  were  completely  controlled 
by  Nicholas  Vedder,  a  patriarch  of  the  village,  and  land- 
lord of  the  inn,  at  the  door  of  which  he  took  hi-s  seat 
from  morning  till  night,  just  moving  sufficiently  to 
avoid  the  sun  and  keep  in  the  shade  of  a  large  tree;  so 
that  the  neighbors  could  tell  the  hour  by  his  movements 
as  accurately  as  by  a  sundial.  It  is  true  he  was  rarely 
heard  to  speak,  but  smoked  his  pipe  incessantly.  His 
adherents,  however  (for  every  great  man  has  his  ad- 
herents), perfectly  understood  him,  and  knew  how  to 
gather  his  opinions.  When  anything  that  was  read  or 
related  displeased  him,  he  was  observed  to  smoke  his 
pipe  vehemently,  and  to  send  forth  short,  frequent,  and 
angry  puffs;  but  when  pleased,  he  would  inhale  the 
smoke  slowly  and  tranquilly,  and  emit  it  in  light  and 
placid  clouds;    and  sometimes,  taking  the  pipe  from 


Rip  Van  Winkle  201 

his  mouth,  and  letting  the  fragrant  vapor  curl  about 
his  nose,  would  gravely  nod  his  head  in  token  of  perfect 
approbation. 

From  even  this  stronghold  the  unlucky  Rip  was  at 
length  routed  by  his  termagant  wife,  who  would  sud- 
denly break  in  upon  the  tranquillity  of  the  assemblage 
and  call  the  members  all  to  naught;  nor  was  that  august 
personage,  Nicholas  Vedder  himself,  sacred  from  the 
daring  tongue  of  this  terrible  virago,  who  charged  him 
outright  with  encouraging  her  husband  in  habits  of 
idleness. 

Poor  Rip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  despair;  and 
his  only  alternative,  to  escape  from  the  labor  of  the 
farm  and  clamor  of  his  wife,  was  to  take  gun  in  hand 
and  stroll  away  into  the  woods.  Here  he  would  some- 
times seat  himself  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  and  share  the 
contents  of  his  wallet  with  Wolf,  with  whom  he  sym- 
pathized as  a  fellow-sufferer  in  persecution.  "Poor 
Wolf,"  he  would  say,  "thy  mistress  leads  thee  a  dog's 
life  of  it;  but  never  mind,  my  lad,  whilst  I  live  thou 
shalt  never  want  a  friend  to  stand  by  thee!"  Wolf 
would  wag  his  tail,  look  wistfully  in  his  master's  face, 
and  if  dogs  can  feel  pity,  I  verily  believe  he  reciprocated 
the  sentiment  with  all  his  heart. 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind  on  a  fine  autumnal  day, 
Rip  had  unconsciously  scrambled  to  one  of  the  highest 
parts  of  the  Kaatskill  Mountains.  He  was  after  his 
favorite  sport  of  squirrel  shooting,  and  the  still  solitudes 
had  echoed  and  reechoed  with  the  reports  of  his  gun. 
Panting  and  fatigued,  he  threw  himself,  late  in  the  after- 
noon, on  a  green  knoll,  covered  with  mountain  herbage, 


202  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

that  crowned  the  brow  of  a  precipice.  From  an  open- 
ing between  the  trees  he  could  overlook  all  the  lower 
country  for  many  a  mile  of  rich  woodland.  He  saw  at 
a  distance  the  lordly  Hudson,  far,  far  below  him,  mov- 
ing on  its  silent  but  majestic  course,  with  the  reflection 
of  a  purple  cloud,  or  the  sail  of  a  lagging  bark,  here  and 
there  sleeping  on  its  glassy  bosom,  and  at  last  losing 
itself  in  the  blue  Highlands. 

On  the  other  side  he  looked  down  into  a  deep  moun- 
tain glen,  wild,  lonely,  and  shagged,  the  bottom  filled 
with  fragments  from  the  impending  cliff's,  and  scarcely 
lighted  by  the  reflected  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  For 
some  time  Rip  lay  musing  on  this  scene;  evening  was 
gradually  advancing;  the  mountains  began  to  throw 
their  long  blue  shadows  over  the  valleys;  he  saw  that 
it  would  be  dark  long  before  he  could  reach  the  village, 
and  he  heaved  a  heavy  sigh  when  he  thought  of  en- 
countering the  terrors  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 

As  he  was  about  to  descend,  he  heard  a  voice  from  a 
distance,  hallooing,  "Rip  Van  Winkle!  Rip  \'an 
Winkle!"  He  looked  around,  but  could  see  nothing 
but  a  crow  winging  its  solitary  flight  across  the  moun- 
tain. He  thought  his  fancy  must  have  deceived  him, 
and  turned  again  to  descend,  when  he  heard  the  same 
cry  ring  through  the  still  evening  air:  "Rip  Van 
Winkle!  Rip  Van  Winkle!" — at  the  same  time  Wolf 
bristled  up  liis  back,  and,  giving  a  low  growl,  skulked 
to  his  master's  side,  looking  fearfully  down  into  the 
glen.  Rip  now  felt  a  vague  apprehension  stealing  over 
him;  he  looked  anxiously  in  the  same  direction,  and 
perceived  a  strange  figure  slowly  toiling  up  the  rocks, 


Rip  Van  Winkle  203 

and  bending  under  the  weight  of  something  he  carried 
on  his  back.  He  was  surprised  to  see  any  human  being 
in  this  lonely  and  unfrequented  place,  but  supposing 
it  to  be  some  one  of  the  neighborhood  in  need  of  his 
assistance,  he  hastened  down  to  yield  it. 

On  nearer  approach  he  was  still  more  surprised  at  the 
singularity  of  the  stranger's  appearance.  He  was  a 
short  square-built  old  fellow,  with  thick  bushy  hair, 
and  a  grizzled  beard.  His  dress  was  of  the  antique 
Dutch  fashion — a  cloth  jerkin  strapped  round  the  waist 
— several  pairs  of  breeches,  the  outer  one  of  ample 
volume,  decorated  with  rows  of  buttons  down  the  sides, 
and  bunches  at  the  knees.  He  bore  on  his  shoulder  a 
stout  keg,  that  seemed  full  of  liquor,  and  made  signs 
for  Rip  to  approach  and  assist  him  with  the  load. 
Though  rather  shy  and  distrustful  of  this  new  acquaint- 
ance, Rip  complied  with  his  usual  alacrity,  and  mutu- 
ally relieving  each  other,  they  clambered  up  a  narrow 
gully,  apparently  the  dry  bed  of  a  mountain  torrent. 
As  they  ascended.  Rip  every  now  and  then  heard  long 
rolling  peals,  like  distant  thunder,  that  seemed  to  issue 
out  of  a  deep  ravine,  or  rather  cleft,  between  lofty 
rocks,  towards  which  their  rugged  path  conducted. 
He  paused  for  an  instant,  but  supposing  it  to  be  the 
muttering  of  one  of  those  transient  thundershowers 
which  often  take  place  in  mountain  heights,  he  pro- 
ceeded. Passing  through  the  ravine,  they  came  to  a 
hollow,  like  a  small  amphitheatre,  surrounded  by  per- 
pendicular precipices,  over  the  brinks  of  which  impend- 
ing trees  shot  their  branches,  so  that  you  only  caught 
glimpses  of  the  azure  sky  and  the  bright  evening  cloud. 


204  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

During  the  whole  time  Rip  and  his  companion  had 
labored  on  in  silence,  for  though  the  former  mar\-elled 
greatly  what  could  be  the  object  of  carrying  a  keg  of 
liquor  up  this  wild  mountain,  yet  there  was  something 
strange  and  incomprehensible  about  the  unknown, 
that  inspired  awe  and  checked  familiarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheatre,  new  objects  of  wonder 
presented  themselves.  On  a  level  spot  in  the  centre 
was  a  company  of  odd-looking  personages  playing  at 
ninepins.  They  were  dressed  in  a  quaint  outlandish 
fashion;  some  wore  short  doublets,  others  jerkins,  with 
long  knives  in  their  belts,  and  most  of  them  had  enor- 
mous breeches,  of  similar  style  with  that  of  the  guide's. 
Their  visages,  too,  were  peculiar;  one  had  a  large  head, 
broad  face,  and  small  piggish  eyes;  the  face  of  another 
seemed  to  consist  entirely  of  nose,  and  was  surmounted 
by  a  white  sugar-loaf  hat,  set  off  with  a  little  red  cock's 
tail.  They  all  had  beards,  of  various  shapes  and  colors. 
There  was  one  who  seemed  to  be  the  commander.  He 
was  a  stout  old  gentleman,  with  a  weather-beaten 
countenance;  he  wore  a  laced  doublet,  broad  belt  and 
hanger,  high-crowned  hat  and  feather,  red  stockings, 
and  high-heeled  shoes,  with  roses  in  them.  The  whole 
group  reminded  Rip  of  the  figures  in  an  old  Flemish 
painting,  in  the  parlor  of  Dominie  Van  Shaick,  the 
village  parson,  and  which  had  been  brought  over  from 
Holland  at  the  time  of  the  settlement. 

What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Rip  was,  that 
though  these  folks  were  evidently  amusing  themselves, 
yet  they  maintained  the  gravest  faces,  the  most  mys- 
terious silence,  and  were,  withal,  the  most  melancholy 


I 


Rip  Van  Winkle  205 

party  of  pleasure  he  had  ever  witnessed.  Nothing 
interrupted  the  stillness  of  the  scene  but  the  noise  of 
the  balls,  which,  whenever  they  were  rolled,  echoed 
along  the  mountains  like  rumbling  peals  of  thunder. 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached  them,  they 
suddenly  desisted  from  their  play,  and  gazed  at  him 
with  such  fixed  statue-like  gaze,  and  such  strange,  un- 
couth, lack-lustre  countenances,  that  his  heart  turned 
within  him,  and  his  knees  smote  together.  His  com- 
panion now  emptied  the  contents  of  the  keg  into  large 
flagons,  and  made  signs  to  him  to  wait  upon  the  com- 
pany. He  obeyed  with  fear  and  trembling;  they 
quaffed  the  liquor  in  profound  silence,  and  then  re- 
turned to  their  game. 

By  degrees  Rip's  awe  and  apprehension  subsided. 
He  even  ventured,  when  no  eye  was  fixed  upon  him, 
to  taste  the  beverage,  which  he  found  had  much  of  the 
flavor  of  excellent  Hollands.  He  was  naturally  a 
thirsty  soul,  and  was  soon  tempted  to  repeat  the 
draught.  One  taste  provoked  another,  and  he  re- 
iterated his  visits  to  the  flagon  so  often  that  at  length 
his  senses  were  overpowered,  his  eyes  swam  in  his  head, 
his  head  gradually  declined,  and  he  fell  into  a  deep 
sleep. 

On  waking,  he  found  himself  on  the  green  knoll 
whence  he  had  first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen.  He 
rubbed  his  eyes — it  was  a  bright  sunny  morning.  The 
birds  were  hopping  and  twittering  among  the  bushes, 
and  the  eagle  was  wheeling  aloft,  and  breasting  the 
pure  mountain  breeze.  "Surely,"  thought  Rip,  "I 
have  not  slept  here  all  night."    He  recalled  the  occur- 


206  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

Fences  before  he  fell  asleep.  The  strange  man  with  a 
keg  of  liquor — the  mountain  ravine — the  wild  retreat 
among  the  rocks — the  woebegone  party  at  ninepins — 
the  flagon — "Oh!  that  flagon!  that  wicked  flagon!" 
thought  Rip — "what  excuse  shall  I  make  to  Dame  Van 
Winkle?" 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place  of  the  clean 
well-oiled  fpwling  piece,  he  found  an  old  firelock  lying 
by  him,  the  barrel  incrusted  with  rust,  the  lock  falling 
ofi",  and  the  stock  worm-eaten.  He  now  suspected 
that  the  grave  roisterers  of  the  mountain  had  put  a 
trick  upon  him,  and,  having  dosed  him  with  liquor,  had 
robbed  him  of  his  gun.  Wolf,  too,  had  disappeared, 
but  he  might  have  strayed  away  after  a  squirrel  or 
partridge.  He  whistled  after  him  and  shouted  his 
name,  but  all  in  vain;  the  echoes  repeated  his  whistle 
and  shout,  but  no  dog  was  to  be  seen. 

He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last  even- 
ing's gambol,  and  if  he  met  with  any  of  the  party,  to 
demand  his  dog  and  gun.  As  he  rose  to  walk,  he  found 
himself  stiff  in  the  joints,  and  wanting  in  his  usual  activ- 
ity. "These  mountain  beds  do  not  agree  with  me," 
thought  Rip,  "and  if  this  frolic  should  lay  mc  up  with  a  fit 
of  the  rheumatism,  I  shall  have  a  blessed  time  with  Dame 
Van  Winkle."  With  some  difficulty  he  got  down  into 
the  glen:  he  found  the  gully  up  which  he  and  his  com- 
panion had  ascended  the  preceding  evening;  but  to 
his  astonishment  a  mountain  stream  was  now  foaming 
down  it,  leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  and  filling  the  glen 
with  babbling  murmurs.  He,  however,  made  shift  to 
scramble  up  its  sides,  working  his  toilsome  way  through 


Rip  Van  Winkle  207 

thickets  of  birch,  sassafras,  and  witch-hazel,  and  some- 
times tripped  up  or  entangled  by  the  wild  grapevines 
that  twisted  their  coils  or  tendrils  from  tree  to  tree, 
and  spread  a  kind  of  network  in  his  path. 

At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had  opened 
through  the  cliffs  to  the  amphitheatre;  but  no  traces 
of  such  opening  remained.  The  rocks  presented  a  high 
impenetrable  wall,  over  which  the  torrent  came  tum- 
bling in  a  sheet  of  feathery  foam,  and  fell  into  a  broad 
deep  basin,  black  from  the  shadows  of  the  surrounding 
forest.  Here,  then,  poor  Rip  was  brought  to  a  stand. 
He  again  called  and  whistled  after  his  dog;  he  was  only 
answered  by  the  cawing  of  a  flock  of  idle  crows,  sport- 
ing high  in  air  about  a  dry  tree  that  overhung  a  sunny 
precipice;  and  who,  secure  in  their  elevation,  seemed 
to  look  down  and  scoff  at  the  poor  man's  perplexities. 
What  was  to  be  done.^  the  morning  was  passing  away, 
and  Rip  felt  famished  for  want  of  his  breakfast.  He 
grieved  to  give  up  his  dog  and  gun;  he  dreaded  to  meet 
his  wife;  but  it  would  not  do  to  starve  among  the  moun- 
tains. He  shook  his  head,  shouldered  the  rusty  fire- 
lock, and,  with  a  heart  full  of  trouble  and  anxiety, 
turned  his  steps  homeward. 

As  he  approached  the  village  he  met  a  number  of 
people,  but  none  whom  he  knew,  which  somewhat  sur- 
prised him,  for  he  had  thought  himself  acquainted  with 
every  one  in  the  country  round.  Their  dress,  too,  was 
of  a  different  fashion  from  that  to  which  he  was  ac- 
customed. They  all  stared  at  him  with  equal  marks  of 
surprise,  and  whenever  they  cast  their  eyes  upon  him, 
invariably  stroked  their  chins.     The  constant  recur- 


2o8  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

rence  of  this  gesture  induced  Rip,  involuntarily,  to  do 
the  same,  when,  to  his  astonishment,  he  found  his 
beard  had  grown  a  foot  long! 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village.  A 
troop  of  strange  children  ran  at  his  heels,  hooting  after 
him,  and  pointing  at  his  grey  beard.  The  dogs,  too, 
not  one  of  which  he  recognized  for  an  old  acquaintance, 
barked  at  him  as  he  passed.  The  very  village  was 
altered;  it  was  larger  and  more  populous.  There  were 
rows  of  houses  which  he  had  never  seen  before,  and 
those  which  had  been  his  familiar  haunts  had  disap- 
peared. Strange  names  were  over  the  doors — strange 
faces  at  the  windows — everything  was  strange.  His 
mind  now  misgave  him;  he  began  to  doubt  whether 
both  he  and  the  world  around  him  were  not  bewitched. 
Surely  this  was  his  native  village,  which  he  had  left  but 
the  day  before.  There  stood  the  Kaatskill  Mountains — 
there  ran  the  silver  Hudson  at  a  distance  —  there  was 
every  hill  and  dale  precisely  as  it  had  always  been — 
Rip  was  sorely  perplexed — "That  flagon  last  night," 
thought  he,  "has  addled  my  poor  head  sadly!" 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found  his  way  to 
his  own  house,  which  he  approached  with  silent  awe, 
expecting  every  moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice  of 
Dame  Van  Winkle.  He  found  the  house  gone  to  decay 
— the  roof  fallen  in,  the  windows  shattered,  and  the 
doors  off  the  hinges.  A  half  starved  dog  that  looked 
like  Wolf  was  skulking  about  it.  Rip  called  him  by 
name,  but  the  cur  snarled,  showed  his  teeth,  and  passed 
on.  This  was  an  unkind  cut  indeed — "My  very  dog," 
sighed  poor  Rip,  "has  forgotten  me!" 


Rip  Van  Winkle  209 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  Dame 
Van  Winkle  had  always  kept  in  neat  order.  It  was 
empty,  forlorn,  and  apparently  abandoned.  This 
desolateness  overcame  all  his  connubial  fears — he 
called  loudly  for  his  wife  and  children — and  the  lonely 
chambers  rang  for  a  moment  with  his  voice,  and  then 
all  again  was  silence. 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his  old  resort, 
the  village  inn — but  it  too  was  gone.  A  large  rickety 
wooden  building  stood  in  its  place,  with  great  gaping 
windows,  some  of  them  broken  and  mended  with  old 
hats  and  petticoats,  and  over  the  door  was  painted, 
"The  Union  Hotel,  by  Jonathan  Doolittle."  Instead 
of  the  great  tree  that  used  to  shelter  the  quiet  little 
Dutch  inn  of  yore,  there  now  was  reared  a  tall  naked 
pole,  with  something  on  the  top  that  looked  like  a  red 
nightcap,  and  from  it  was  fluttering  a  flag,  on  which 
was  a  singular  assemblage  of  stars  and  stripes — all  this 
was  strange  and  incomprehensible.  He  recognised  on 
the  sign,  however,  the  ruby  face  of  King  George,  under 
which  he  had  smoked  so  many  a  peaceful  pipe;  but 
even  this  was  singularly  metamorphosed.  The  red 
coat  was  changed  for  one  of  blue  and  buff,  a  sword  was 
held  in  the  hand  instead  of  a  sceptre,  the  head  was 
decorated  with  a  cocked  hat,  and  underneath  was 
painted  in  large  characters.  General  Washington. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about  the  door, 
but  none  that  Rip  recollected.  The  very  character  of 
the  people  seemed  changed.  There  was  a  busy,  bust- 
ling, disputatious  tone  about  it,  instead  of  the  accus- 
tomed phlegm  and  drowsy  tranquillity.     He  looked  in 


2IO  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

vain  for  the  sage  Nicholas  Vedder,  with  his  broad  face, 
double  chin,  and  fair  long  pipe,  uttering  clouds  of 
tobacco  smoke  instead  of  idle  speeches,  or  Van  Bum- 
mel,  the  schoolmaster,  doling  forth  the  contents  of  an 
ancient  newspaper.  In  place  of  these,  a  lean,  bilious- 
looking  fellow,  with  his  pockets  full  of  handbills,  was 
haranguing  vehemently  about  rights  of  citizens — elec- 
tions— members  of  congress — liberty — Bunker  Hill 
— heroes  of  seventy-six — and  other  words,  which  were 
a  perfect  Babylonish  jargon  to  the  bewildered  Van 
Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long  grizzled  beard, 
his  rusty  fowling  piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  an  army 
of  women  and  children  at  his  heels,  soon  attracted  the 
attention  of  the  tavern  politicians.  They  crowded 
round  him,  eyeing  him  from  head  to  foot  with  great 
curiosity.  The  orator  bustled  up  to  him,  and,  drawing 
him  partly  aside,  inquired  "on  which  side  he  voted?" 
Rip  stared  in  vacant  stupidity.  Another  short  but 
busy  little  fellow  pulled  him  by  the  arm,  and,  rising  on 
tiptoe,  inquired  in  his  ear,  "Whether  he  was  Federal 
or  Democrat.'*"  Rip  was  equally  at  a  loss  to  compre- 
hend the  question,  when  a  knowing,  self-important  old 
gentleman,  in  a  sharp  cocked  hat,  made  his  way  through 
the  crowd,  putting  them  to  right  and  left  with  his 
elbows  as  he  passed,  and  planting  himself  before  Van 
Winkle,  with  one  arm  a-klmbo,  the  other  resting  on  his 
cane,  his  keen  eyes  and  sharp  hat  penetrating,  as  it 
were,  into  his  very  soul,  demanded  in  an  austere  tone, 
"what  brought  him  to  the  election  with  a  gun  on  his 
shoulder,  and  a  mob  at  his  heels,  and  whether  he  meant 


Rip  Van  Winkle  21 1 

to  breed  a  riot  in  the  village?"  "Alas!  gentlemen," 
cried  Rip,  somewhat  dismayed,  "I  am  a  poor,  quiet 
man,  a  native  of  the  place,  and  a  loyal  subject  of  the 
king,  God  bless  him!" 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  bystanders — 
"A  Tory!  a  Tory!  a  spy!  a  refugee!  hustle  him!  away 
with  him!"  It  was  with  great  difficulty  that  the  self- 
important  man  in  the  cocked  hat  restored  order;  and, 
having  assumed  a  tenfold  austerity  of  brow,  demanded 
again  of  the  unknown  culprit,  what  he  came  there  for, 
and  whom  he  was  seeking?  The  poor  man  humbly 
assured  him  that  he  meant  no  harm,  but  merely  came 
there  in  search  of  some  of  his  neighbors,  who  used  to 
keep  about  the  tavern. 

"Well — who  are  they? — name  them." 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  inquired, 
"Where's  Nicholas  Vedder.?" 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  while,  when  an  old 
man  replied,  in  a  thin  piping  voice,  "Nicholas  Vedder! 
why,  he  is  dead  and  gone  these  eighteen  years!  There 
was  a  wooden  tombstone  in  the  churchyard  that  used 
to  tell  all  about  him,  but  that's  rotten  and  gone  too." 

"Where's  Brom  Dutcher?" 

"Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  beginning  of  the 
war;  some  say  he  was  killed  at  the  storming  of  Stony 
Point — others  say  he  was  drowned  In  a  squall  at  the 
foot  of  Anthony's  Nose.  I  don't  know — he  never  came 
back  again." 

"Where's  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster?" 

"He  went  off  to  the  wars  too,  was  a  great  militia 
general,  and  is  now  in  Congress." 


212  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

Rip's  heart  died  away  at  hearing  of  these  sad  changes 
in  his  home  and  friends,  and  finding  himself  thus  alone 
in  the  world.  Every  answer  puzzled  him,  too,  by  treat- 
ing of  such  enormous  lapses  of  time,  and  of  matters 
which  he  could  not  understand;  war — congress — 
Stony  Point; — he  had  no  courage  to  ask  after  any  more 
friends,  but  cried  out  in  despair,  *'Does  nobody  here 
know  Rip  Van  Winkle?" 

"Oh,  Rip  Van  Winkle!"  exclaimed  two  or  three, 
"Oh  to  be  sure!  that's  Rip  Van  Winkle  yonder,  leaning 
against  the  tree." 

Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise  counterpart  of  him- 
self, as  he  went  up  the  mountain:  apparently  as  lazy, 
and  certainly  as  ragged.  The  poor  fellow  was  now  com- 
pletely confounded.  He  doubted  his  own  identity,  and 
whether  he  was  himself  or  another  man.  In  the  midst 
of  his  bewilderment,  the  man  in  the  cocked  hat  de- 
manded who  he  was,  and  what  was  his  name? 

"God  knows,"  exclaimed  he,  at  his  wits'  end;  "I'm 
not  myself — I'm  somebody  else — that's  me  yonder — 
no  that's  somebody  else  got  into  my  shoes — I  was  my- 
self last  night,  but  I  fell  asleep  on  the  mountain,  and 
they've  changed  my  gun,  and  everything's  changed, 
and  I'm  changed,  and  I  can't  tell  what's  my  name,  or 
who  I  am!" 

The  bystanders  began  now  to  look  at  each  other, 
nod,  wink  significantly,  and  tap  their  fingers  against 
their  foreheads.  There  was  a  whisper,  also,  about 
securing  the  gun,  and  keeping  the  old  fellow  from  doing 
mischief,  at  the  very  suggestion  of  which  the  self- 
important  man  in  the  cocked  hat  retired  with  some 


Rip  Van  Winkle  213 

precipitation.  At  this  critical  moment  a  fresh  comely 
woman  pressed  through  the  throng  to  get  a  peep  at  the 
grey-bearded  man.  She  had  a  chubby  child  in  her 
arms,  which,  frightened  at  his  looks,  began  to  cry. 
"Hush,  Rip,"  cried  she,  "hush,  you  little  fool;  the  old 
man  won't  hurt  you."  The  name  of  the  child,  the  air 
of  the  mother,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  all  awakened  a 
train  of  recollections  in  his  mind.  "What  is  your  name, 
my  good  woman?"  asked  he. 

"Judith  Gardenier." 

"And  your  father's  name.^" 

"Ah,  poor  man.  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  his  name,  but 
it's  twenty  years  since  he  went  away  from  home  with 
his  gun,  and  never  has  been  heard  of  since — his  dog 
came  home  without  him,  but  whether  he  shot  himself, 
or  was  carried  away  by  the  Indians,  nobody  can  tell. 
I  was  then  but  a  little  girl." 

Rip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask;  but  he  put  it 
with  a  faltering  voice: 

"Where's  your  mother.'*" 

"Oh,  she  too  had  died  but  a  short  time  since;  she 
broke  a  blood  vessel  in  a  fit  of  passion  at  a  New  England 
peddler." 

There  was  a  drop  of  comfort,  at  least,  in  this  intelli- 
gence. The  honest  man  could  contain  himself  no  longer. 
He  caught  his  daughter  and  her  child  in  his  arms.  "I 
am  your  father!"  cried  he — "Young  Rip  Van  Winkle 
once — old  Rip  Van  Winkle  now! — Does  nobody  know 
poor  Rip  Van  Winkle.?" 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman,  tottering  out 
from  among  the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and 


214  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

peering  under  it  in  his  face  for  a  moment,  exclaimed, 
"Sure  enough!  it  is  Rip  Van  Winkle — it  is  himself! 
Welcome  home  again,  old  neighbor — Why,  where  have 
you  been  these  twenty  long  years?" 

Rip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole  twenty  years 
had  been  to  him  but  as  one  night.  The  neighbors  stared 
when  they  heard  it;  some  were  seen  to  wink  at  each 
other,  and  put  their  tongues  in  their  cheeks:  and  the 
self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat,  who,  when  the 
alarm  was  over,  had  returned  to  the  field,  screwed 
down  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and  shook  his  head — 
upon  which  there  was  a  general  shaking  throughout 
the  assemblage. 

It  was  determined,  however,  to  take  the  opinion  of 
old  Peter  Vanderdonk,  who  was  seen  slowly  advancing 
up  the  road.  He  was  a  descendant  of  the  historian  of 
that  name,  who  wrote  one  of  the  earliest  accounts  of 
the  province.  Peter  was  the  most  ancient  inhabitant 
of  the  village,  and  well  versed  in  all  the  wonderful  events 
and  traditions  of  the  neighborhood.  He  recollected 
Rip  at  once,  and  corroborated  his  story  in  the  most 
satisfactory  manner.  He  assured  the  company  that  it 
was  a  fact,  handed  down  from  his  ancestor  the  historian, 
that  the  Kaatskill  Mountains  had  always  been  haunted 
by  strange  beings.  That  it  was  affirmed  that  the  great 
Hendrick  Hudson,  the  first  discoverer  of  the  river  and 
country,  kept  a  kind  of  vigil  there  every  twenty  years, 
with  his  crew  of  the  Half  Moon;  being  permitted  in 
this  way  to  revisit]the  scenes  of  his  enterprise,  and  keep 
a  guardian  eye  upon  the  river,  and  the  great  city  called 
by  his  name.     That  his  father  had  once  seen  them  in 


Rip  Van  Winkle  215 

their  old  Dutch  dresses  playing  at  ninepins  in  a  hollow 
of  the  mountain;  and  that  he  himself  had  heard,  one 
summer  afternoon,  the  sound  of  their  balls,  like  distant 
peals  of  thunder. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  company  broke  up, 
and  returned  to  the  more  important  concerns  of  the 
election.  Rip's  daughter  took  him  home  to  live  with 
her;  she  had  a  snug,  well-furnished  house,  and  a  stout 
cheery  farmer  for  a  husband,  whom  Rip  recollected  for 
one  of  the  urchins  that  used  to  climb  upon  his  back. 
As  to  Rip's  son  and  heir,  who  was  the  ditto  of  himself, 
seen  leaning  against  the  tree,  he  was  employed  to  work 
on  the  farm;  but  evinced  an  hereditary  disposition  to 
attend  to  anything  else  but  his  business. 

Rip  now  resumed  his  old  walks  and  habits;  he  soon 
found  many  of  his  former  cronies,  though  all  rather  the 
worse  for  the  wear  and  tear  of  time;  and  preferred 
making  friends  among  the  rising  generation,  with  whom 
he  soon  grew  into  great  favor. 

Having  nothing  to  do  at  home,  and  being  arrived  at 
that  happy  age  when  a  man  can  be  idle  with  impunity, 
he  took  his  place  once  more  on  the  bench  at  the  inn 
door,  and  was  reverenced  as  one  of  the  patriarchs  of 
the  village,  and  a  chronicler  of  the  old  times  "before  the 
war."  It  was  some  time  before  he  could  get  into  the 
regular  track  of  gossip,  or  could  be  made  to  compre- 
hend the  strange  events  that  had  taken  place  during 
his  torpor.  How  that  there  had  been  a  Revolutionary 
War — that  the  country  had  thrown  off  the  yoke  of  old 
England — and  that,  instead  of  being  a  subject  of  his 
Majesty  George  the  Third,  he  was  now  a  free  citizen 


2i6  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

of  the  United  States.  Rip,  in  fact,  was  no  poHtician; 
the  changes  of  states  and  empires  made  but  little  im- 
pression on  him;  but  there  was  one  species  of  despot- 
ism under  which  he  had  long  groaned,  and  that  was  — 
petticoat  government.  Happily  that  was  at  an  end; 
he  had  got  his  neck  out  of  the  yoke  of  matrimony,  and 
could  go  in  and  out  whenever  he  pleased,  without 
dreading  the  tyranny  of  Dame  Van  Winkle.  When- 
ever her  name  was  mentioned,  however,  he  shook  his 
head,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  cast  up  his  eyes; 
which  might  pass  either  for  an  expression  of  resigna- 
tion to  his  fate,  or  joy  at  his  deliverance. 

He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger  that  arrived 
at  Mr.  Doolittle's  hotel.  He  was  observed,  at  first, 
to  vary  on  some  points  every  time  he  told  it,  which 
was,  doubtless,  owing  to  his  having  so  recently  awaked. 
It  at  last  settled  down  precisely  to  the  tale  I  have 
related,  and  not  a  man,  woman,  or  child  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, but  knew  it  by  heart.  Some  always  pre- 
tended to  doubt  the  reality  of  it,  and  insisted  that  Rip 
had  been  out  of  his  head,  and  that  this  was  one  point 
on  which  he  always  remained  flighty.  The  old  Dutch 
inhabitants,  however,  almost  universally  gave  it  full 
credit.  Even  to  this  day  they  never  hear  a  thunder- 
storm of  a  summer  afternoon  about  the  Kaatskills, 
but  they  say  Hcndrick  Hudson  and  his  crew  are  at 
their  game  of  ninepins;  and  it  is  a  common  wish  of  all 
henpecked  husbands  in  the  neighborhood,  when  life 
hangs  heavy  on  their  hands,  that  they  might  have  a 
quieting  draught  out  of  Rip  Van  Winkle's  flagon. 


Rip  Van  Winkle  217 


NOTE 

The  subjoined  note  which  Mr.  Knickerbocker  appended  to  the 
tale,  shows  that  it  is  an  absolute  fact,  narrated  with  his  usual  fidelity. 

"The  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  may  seem  incredible  to  many, 
but  nevertheless  I  give  it  my  full  belief,  for  I  know  the  vicinity  of 
our  old  Dutch  settlements  to  have  been  very  subject  to  marvellous 
events  and  appearances.  Indeed,  I  have  heard  many  stranger 
stories  than  this,  in  the  villages  along  the  Hudson,  all  of  which  were 
too  well  authenticated  to  admit  of  a  doubt.  I  have  even  talked 
with  Rip  Van  Winkle  myself,  who,  when  last  I  saw  him,  was  a  very 
venerable  old  man,  and  so  perfectly  rational  and  consistent  on  every 
other  point,  that  I  think  no  conscientious  person  could  refuse  to  take 
this  into  the  bargain;  nay,  I  have  seen  a  certificate  on  the  subject 
taken  before  a  country  justice,  and  signed  with  a  cross,  in  the  jus- 
tice's own  handwriting.  The  story,  therefore,  is  beyond  the  possibili- 
ty of  doubt. 

D.K." 


POSTSCRIPT 

The  following  are  travelling  notes  from  a  memorandum-book  of 
Mr.  Knickerbocker: 

The  Kaatsberg  or  Catskill  Mountains  have  always  been  a  region 
full  of  fable.  The  Indians  considered  them  the  abode  of  spirits,  who 
influenced  the  weather,  spreading  sunshine  or  clouds  over  the  land- 
scape, and  sending  good  or  bad  hunting  seasons.  They  were  ruled 
by  an  old  squaw  spirit,  said  to  be  their  mother.  She  dwelt  on  the 
highest  peak  of  the  Catskills,  and  had  charge  of  the  doors  of  day 
and  night,  to  open  and  shut  them  at  the  proper  hour.  She  hung  up 
the  new  moons  in  the  skies,  and  cut  up  the  old  ones  into  stars.  In 
times  of  drought,  if  properly  propitiated,  she  would  spin  light  sum- 


2i8  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

mer  clouds  out  of  cobwebs  and  morning  dew,  and  send  them  off 
from  the  crest  of  the  mountain,  flake  after  flake,  like  flakes  of  carded 
cotton,  to  float  in  the  air,  until,  dissolved  by  the  heat  of  the  sun, 
they  would  fall  in  gentle  showers,  causing  the  grass  to  spring,  the 
fruits  to  ripen,  and  the  corn  to  grow  an  inch  an  hour.  If  displeased, 
however,  she  would  brew  up  clouds  black  as  ink,  sitting  in  the  midst 
of  them  like  a  bottle-bellied  spider  in  the  midst  of  its  web,  and  when 
these  clouds  broke,  woe  betide  the  valleys. 

In  old  times,  say  the  Indian  traditions,  there  was  a  kind  of 
Manitou  or  Spirit,  who  kept  about  the  wildest  recesses  of  the  Cats- 
kill  Mountains,  and  took  a  mischievous  pleasure  in  wreaking  all 
kinds  of  evils  and  vexations  upon  the  red  men.  Sometimes  he  would 
assume  the  form  of  a  bear,  a  panther,  or  a  deer,  lead  the  bewildered 
hunter  a  weary  chase  through  tangled  forests  and  among  ragged 
rocks,  and  then  spring  off  with  a  loud  ho!  ho!  leaving  him  aghast 
on  the  brink  of  a  beetling  precipice  or  raging  torrent. 

The  favorite  abode  of  this  Manitou  is  still  shown.  It  is  a  great 
rock  or  cliff  on  the  loneliest  part  of  the  mountains,  and,  from  the 
flowering  vines  which  clamber  about  it,  and  the  wild  flowers  which 
abound  in  its  neighborhood,  is  known  by  the  name  of  the  Garden 
Rock.  Near  the  foot  of  it  is  a  small  lake,  the  haunt  of  the  solitary 
bittern,  with  water  snakes  basking  in  the  sun  on  the  leaves  of  the 
pond  lilies  which  lie  on  the  surface.  This  place  was  held  in  great 
awe  by  the  Indians,  insomuch  that  the  boldest  hunter  would  not 
pursue  his  game  within  its  precincts.  Once  upon  a  time,  however, 
a  hunter  who  had  lost  his  way,  penetrated  to  the  Garden  Rock,  where 
he  beheld  a  number  of  gourds  placed  in  the  crotches  of  trees.  One 
of  these  he  seized  and  made  off  with  it,  but  in  the  hurry  of  his  retreat, 
he  let  it  fall  among  the  rocks,  when  a  great  stream  gushed  forth, 
which  washed  him  away,  and  swept  him  down  precipices,  where  he 
was  dashed  to  pieces,  and  the  stream  made  its  way  to  the  Hudson, 
and  continues  to  flow  to  the  present  day,  being  the  identical  stream 
known  by  the  name  of  the  Kaaters-kill. 


GOLDEN    DREAMS 


TN  the  year  of  grace  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and 
blank  —  for  I  do  not  remember  the  precise  date; 
however,  it  was  somewhere  in  the  early  part  of  the  last 
century,  there  lived  in  the  ancient  city  of  the  Man- 
hattoes  a  worthy  burgher,  Wolfert  Webber  by  name. 
He  was  descended  from  old  Cobus  Webber  of  the 
Brille  in  Holland,  one  of  the  original  settlers,  famous 
for  introducing  the  cultivation  of  cabbages,  and  who 
came  over  to  the  province  during  the  protectorship  of 
Oloffe  Van  Kortlandt,  otherwise  called  the  Dreamer. 

The  field  in  which  Cobus  Webber  first  planted  him- 
self and  his  cabbages  had  remained  ever  since  in  the 
family,  who  continued  in  the  same  line  of  husbandry, 
with  that  praiseworthy  perseverance  for  which  our 
Dutch  burghers  are  noted.  The  whole  family  genius, 
during  several  generations,  was  devoted  to  the  study 
and  development  of  this  one  noble  vegetable;  and  to 
this  concentration  of  intellect  may  doubtless  be  as- 
cribed the  prodigious  renown  to  which  the  Webber 
cabbages  attained. 

The  Webber  dynasty  continued  in  uninterrupted 
succession;  and  never  did  a  line  give  more  unquestiona- 
ble proofs  of  legitimacy.  The  eldest  son  succeeded  to 
the  looks,  as  well  as  the  territory  of  his  sire;    and  had 


220  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

the  portraits  of  this  line  of  tranquil  potentates  been 
taken,  they  would  have  presented  a  row  of  heads 
marvellously  resembling  in  shape  and  magnitude  the 
vegetables  over  which  they  reigned. 

The  seat  of  government  continued  unchanged  in  the 
family  mansion: — a  Dutch-built  house,  with  a  front, 
or  rather  gable-end  of  yellow  brick,  tapering  to  a  point, 
with  the  customary  iron  weathercock  at  the  top. 
Everything  about  the  building  bore  the  air  of  long- 
settled  ease  and  security.  Flights  of  martins  peopled 
the  little  coops  nailed  against  its  walls,  and  swallows 
built  their  nests  under  the  eaves;  and  every  one  knows 
that  these  house-loving  birds  bring  good  luck  to  the 
dwelling  where  they  take  up  their  abode.  In  a  bright 
sunny  morning  in  early  summer,  it  was  delectable  to 
hear  their  cheerful  notes,  as  they  sported  about  in  the 
pure  sweet  air,  chirping  forth,  as  it  were,  the  greatness 
and  prosperity  of  the  Webbers. 

Thus  quietly  and  comfortably  did  this  excellent 
family  vegetate  under  the  shade  of  a  mighty  button- 
wood  tree,  which  by  little  and  little  grew  so  great  as 
entirely  to  overshadow  their  palace.  The  city  gradu- 
ally spread  its  suburbs  round  their  domain.  Houses 
sprang  up  to  interrupt  their  prospects.  The  rural  lanes 
in  the  vicinity  began  to  grow  into  the  bustle  and 
populousness  of  streets;  in  short,  with  all  the  habits  of 
rustic  life,  they  began  to  find  themselves  the  inhabit- 
ants of  a  city.  Still,  however,  they  maintained  their 
hereditary  character  and  hereditary  possessions,  with 
all  the  tenacity  of  petty  German  princes  in  the  midst 
of  the  empire.     Wolfert  was  the  last  of  the  line,  and 


I 


Golden  Dreams  221 

succeeded  to  the  patriarchal  bench  at  the  door,  under 
the  family  tree,  and  swayed  the  sceptre  of  his  fathers, 
a  kind  of  rural  potentate  in  the  midst  of  a  metropolis. 

To  share  the  cares  and  sweets  of  sovereignty,  he  had 
taken  unto  himself  a  helpmate,  one  of  that  excellent 
kind,  called  stirring  women;  that  is  to  say,  she  was 
one  of  those  notable  little  housewives  who  are  always 
busy  when  there  is  nothing  to  do.  Her  activity,  how- 
ever, took  one  particular  direction;  her  whole  life 
seemed  devoted  to  intense  knitting;  whether  at  home 
or  abroad,  walking  or  sitting,  her  needles  were  continu- 
ally in  motion,  and  it  is  even  affirmed  that  by  her  un- 
wearied industry  she  very  nearly  supplied  her  house- 
hold with  stockings  throughout  the  year.  This  worthy 
couple  were  blessed  with  one  daughter,  who  was  brought 
up  with  great  tenderness  and  care;  uncommon  pains 
had  been  taken  with  her  education  so  that  she  could 
stitch  in  every  variety  of  way,  make  all  kinds  of  pickles 
and  preserves,  and  mark  her  own  name  on  a  sampler. 
The  influence  of  her  taste  was  seen  also  in  the  family 
garden,  where  the  ornamental  began  to  mingle  with 
the  useful;  whole  rows  of  fiery  marigolds  and  splendid 
hollyhocks  bordered  the  cabbage  beds;  and  gigantic 
sunflowers  lolled  their  broad  jolly  faces  over  the  fences, 
seeming  to  ogle  most  affectionately  the  passers-by. 

Thus  reigned  and  vegetated  Wolfert  Webber  over 
his  paternal  acres,  peacefully  and  contentedly.  Not 
but  that,  like  all  other  sovereigns,  he  had  his  occasional 
cares  and  vexations.  The  growth  of  his  native  city 
sometimes  caused  him  annoyance.  His  little  territory 
gradually  became  hemmed  in  by  streets  and  houses, 


222  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

which  intercepted  air  and  sunshine.  He  was  now  and 
then  subjected  to  the  irruptions  of  the  border  popula- 
tion that  infest  the  streets  of  a  metropolis;  who  would 
make  midnight  forays  into  his  dominions,  and  carry- 
off  captive  whole  platoons  of  his  noblest  subjects. 
Vagrant  swine  would  make  a  descent,  too,  now  and 
then,  when  the  gate  was  left  open,  and  lay  all  waste 
before  them;  and  mischievous  urchins  would  decapi- 
tate the  illustrious  sunflowers,  the  glory  of  the  garden, 
as  they  lolled  their  heads  so  fondly  over  the  walls. 
Still  all  these  were  petty  grievances,  which  might  now 
and  then  ruffle  the  surface  of  his  mind,  as  a  summer 
breeze  will  ruffle  the  surface  of  a  mill  pond;  but  they 
could  not  disturb  the  deep-seated  quiet  of  his  soul. 
He  would  but  seize  a  trusty  staff,  that  stood  behind 
the  door,  issue  suddenly  out,  anoint  the  back  of  the 
aggressor,  whether  pig  or  urchin,  and  then  return  within 
doors,  marvellously  refreshed  and  tranquillized. 

The  chief  cause  of  anxiety  to  honest  Wolfert,  how- 
ever, was  the  growing  prosperity  of  the  city.  The 
expenses  of  living  doubled  and  trebled,  but  he  could 
not  double  and  treble  the  magnitude  of  his  cabbages; 
and  the  number  of  competitors  prevented  the  increase 
of  price;  thus,  therefore,  while  every  one  around  him 
grew  richer,  Wolfert  grew  poorer,  and  he  could  not,  for 
the  life  of  him,  perceive  how  the  evil  was  to  be  remedied. 

This  growing  care,  which  increased  from  day  to  day, 
had  its  gradual  effect  upon  our  worthy  burgher;  inso- 
much, that  it  at  length  implanted  two  or  three  wrinkles 
in  his  brow,  things  unknown  before  in  the  family  of  the 
Webbers;    and  it  seemed  to  pinch  up  the  corners  of  his 


I 


Golden  Dreams  223 

cocked  hat  into  an  expression  of  anxiety,  totally  op- 
posite to  the  tranquil,  broad-brimmed,  low-crowned 
beavers  of  his  illustrious  progenitors. 

Perhaps  even  this  would  not  have  materially  dis- 
turbed the  serenity  of  his  mind,  had  he  had  only  him- 
self and  his  wife  to  care  for;  but  there  was  his  daughter 
gradually  growing  to  maturity;  and  all  the  world 
knows  that  when  daughters  begin  to  ripen  no  fruit  nor 
flower  requires  so  much  looking  after.  I  have  no  talent 
at  describing  famale  charms,  else  fain  would  I  depict 
the  progress  of  this  little  Dutch  beauty.  How  her  blue 
eyes  grew  deeper  and  deeper,  and  her  cherry  lips  redder 
and  redder;  and  how  she  ripened  and  ripened,  and 
rounded  and  rounded  in  the  opening  breath  of  sixteen 
summers,  until,  in  her  seventeenth  spring,  she  seemed 
ready  to  burst  out  of  her  bodice,  like  a  half  blown 
rosebud. 

Ah,  well-a-day!  could  I  but  show  her  as  she  was  then, 
tricked  out  on  a  Sunday  morning,  in  the  hereditary 
finery  of  the  old  Dutch  clothespress,  of  which  her 
mother  had  confided  to  her  the  key;  the  wedding- 
dress  of  her  grandmother,  modernized  for  use,  with 
sundry  ornaments,  handed  down  as  heirlooms  in  the 
family;  her  pale  brown  hair  smoothed  with  butter- 
milk in  flat  waving  lines  on  each  side  of  her  fair  fore- 
head; the  chain  of  yellow  virgin  gold,  that  encircled 
her  neck;  the  little  cross,  that  just  rested  at  the  en- 
trance of  a  soft  valley  of  happiness,  as  if  it  would 
sanctify  the  place;  the  —  but,  pooh! — it  is  not  for  an 
old  man  like  me  to  be  prosing  about  female  beauty; 
suffice  it  to  say,  Amy  had  attained  her  seventeenth 


224  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

year.  Long  since  had  her  sampler  exhibited  hearts  in 
couples  desperately  transfixed  with  arrows,  and  true 
lovers'  knots  worked  in  deep-blue  silk;  and  it  was  evi- 
dent she  began  to  languish  for  some  more  interesting 
occupation  than  rearing  of  sunflowers  or  pickling  of 
cucumbers. 

At  this  critical  period  of  female  existence,  when  the 
heart  within  a  damsel's  bosom,  like  its  emblem,  the 
miniature  which  hangs  without,  is  apt  to  be  engrossed 
by  a  single  image,  a  new  visitor  began  to  make  his  ap- 
pearance under  the  roof  of  Wolfert  Webber.  This  was 
Dirk  Waldron,  the  only  son  of  a  poor  widow,  but  who 
could  boast  of  more  fathers  than  any  lad  in  the  province; 
for  his  mother  had  had  four  husbands,  and  this  only 
child,  so  that  though  born  in  her  last  wedlock,  he  might 
fairly  claim  to  be  the  tardy  fruit  of  a  long  course  of 
cultivation.  This  son  of  four  fathers  united  the  merits 
and  the  vigor  of  all  his  sires.  If  he  had  not  a  great 
family  before  him,  he  seemed  likely  to  have  a  great  one 
after  him;  for  you  had  only  to  look  at  the  fresh  bux- 
om youth,  to  see  that  he  was  formed  to  be  the  founder 
of  a  mighty  race. 

This  youngster  gradually  became  an  intimate  visitor 
of  the  family.  He  talked  little,  but  he  sat  long.  He 
filled  the  father's  pipe  when  it  was  empty,  gathered  up 
the  mother's  knitting  needle  or  ball  of  worsted  when  it 
fell  to  the  ground;  stroked  the  sleek  coat  of  the  tortoise- 
shell  cat,  and  replenished  the  teapot  for  the  daughter 
from  the  bright  copper  kettle  that  sang  before  the  fire. 
All  these  quiet  little  ofiices  may  seem  of  trifling  import; 
but  when  true  love  is  translated  into  Low  Dutch,  it  is 


Golden  Dreams  225 

in  this  way  that  it  eloquently  expresses  itself.  They 
were  not  lost  upon  the  Webber  family.  The  winning 
youngster  found  marvellous  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the 
mother;  the  tortoise-shell  cat,  albeit  the  most  staid 
and  demure  of  her  kind,  gave  indubitable  signs  of 
approbation  of  his  visits;  the  teakettle  seemed  to  sing 
out  a  cheering  note  of  welcome  at  his  approach;  and 
if  the  sly  glances  of  the  daughter  might  be  rightly  read, 
as  she  sat  bridling  and  dimpling,  and  sewing  by  her 
mother's  side,  she  was  not  a  whit  behind  Dame  Webber, 
or  grimalkin,  or  the  teakettle,  in  good  will. 

Wolfert  alone  saw  nothing  of  what  was  going  on. 
Profoundly  wrapt  up  in  meditation  on  the  growth  of 
the  city  and  his  cabbages,  he  sat  looking  in  the  fire,  and 
pufhng  his  pipe  in  silence.  One  night,  however,  as  the 
gentle  Amy,  according  to  custom,  lighted  her  lover  to 
the  outer  door,  and  he,  according  to  custom,  took  his 
parting  salute,  the  smack  resounded  so  vigorously 
through  the  long,  silent  entry,  as  to  startle  even  the 
dull  ear  of  Wolfert.  He  was  slowly  roused  to  a  new 
source  of  anxiety.  It  had  never  entered  into  his  head 
that  this  mere  child,  who,  as  it  seemed,  but  the  other 
day  had  been  climbing  about  his  knees,  and  playing 
with  dolls  and  baby-houses,  could  all  at  once  be  think- 
ing of  lovers  and  matrimony.  He  rubbed  his  eyes, 
examined  into  the  fact,  and  really  found  that  while  he 
had  been  dreaming  of  other  matters,  she  had  actually 
grown  to  be  a  woman,  and  what  was  worse,  had  fallen 
in  love.  Here  arose  new  cares  for  Wolfert.  He  was  a 
kind  father,  but  he  was  a  prudent  man.  The  young 
man  was  a  lively,  stirring  lad;    but  then  he  had  neither 


226  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

money  nor  land.  Wolfert's  ideas  all  ran  in  one  channel; 
and  he  saw  no  alternative  in  case  of  a  marriage,  but  to 
portion  off  the  young  couple  with  a  corner  of  his  cab- 
bage garden,  the  whole  of  which  was  barely  sufficient 
for  the  support  of  his  family. 

Like  a  prudent  father,  therefore,  he  determined  to 
nip  this  passion  in  the  bud,  and  forbade  the  youngster 
the  house;  though  sorely  did  it  go  against  his  fatherly 
heart,  and  many  a  silent  tear  did  it  cause  in  the  bright 
eye  of  his  daughter.  She  showed  herself,  however,  a 
pattern  of  filial  piety  and  obedience.  She  never  pouted 
and  sulked;  she  never  flew  in  the  face  of  parental 
authority;  she  never  flew  into  a  passion,  nor  fell  into 
hysterics,  as  many  romantic,  novel-read  young  ladies 
do.  Not  she,  indeed!  She  was  none  such  heroical 
rebellious  trumpery,  I'll  warrant  ye.  On  the  contrary, 
she  acquiesced  like  an  obedient  daughter,  shut  the 
street  door  in  her  lover's  face,  and  if  ever  she  did  grant 
him  an  interview,  it  was  either  out  of  the  kitchen 
window,  or  over  the  garden  fence. 

Wolfert  was  deeply  cogitating  these  matters  in  his 
mind,  and  his  brow  wrinkled  with  unusual  care,  as  he 
wended  his  way  one  Saturday  afternoon  to  a  rural  inn, 
about  two  miles  from  the  city.  It  was  a  favorite  resort 
of  the  Dutch  part  of  the  community,  from  being  always 
held  by  a  Dutch  line  of  landlords,  and  retaining  an  air 
and  relish  of  the  good  old  times.  It  was  a  Dutch-built 
house,  that  had  probably  been  a  countryseat  of  some 
opulent  burgher  in  the  early  times  of  the  settlement. 
It  stood  near  a  point  of  land  called  Corlear's  Hook, 
which  stretches  out  into  the  Sound,  and  against  which 


Golden  Dreams  227 

the  tide,  at  its  flux  and  reflux,  sets  with  extraordinary 
rapidity.  The  venerable  and  somewhat  crazy  man- 
sion was  distinguished  from  afar,  by  a  grove  of  elms 
and  sycamores,  that  seemed  to  wave  a  hospitable  invi- 
tation; while  a  few  weeping  willows,  with  their  dark, 
drooping  foliage,  resembling  fallen  waters,  gave  an  idea 
of  coolness,  that  rendered  it  an  attractive  spot,  during 
the  heats  of  summer. 

Here,  therefore,  as  I  said,  resorted  many  of  the  old  in- 
habitants of  the  Manhattoes,  where,  while  some  played 
at  shuffleboard,  and  quoits,  and  ninepins,  others  smoked 
a  deliberate  pipe,  and  talked  over  public  affairs. 

It  was  on  a  blustering  autumnal  afternoon  that 
Wolfert  made  his  visit  to  the  inn.  The  grove  of  elms 
and  willows  was  stripped  of  its  leaves,  which  whirled 
in  rustling  eddies  about  the  fields.  The  ninepin  alley 
was  deserted,  for  the  premature  chilliness  of  the  day 
had  driven  the  company  within  doors.  As  it  was  Sat- 
urday afternoon,  the  habitual  club  was  in  session,  com- 
posed principally  of  regular  Dutch  burghers,  though 
mingled  occasionally  with  persons  of  various  character 
and  country,  as  is  natural  in  a  place  of  such  motley 
population. 

Beside  the  fireplace,  in  a  huge,  leather-bottomed 
armchair,  sat  the  dictator  of  this  little  world,  the  ven- 
erable Rem,  or  as  it  was  pronounced,  Ramm  Rapelye. 
He  was  a  man  of  Walloon  race,  and  illustrious  for  the 
antiquity  of  his  line;  his  great-grandmother  having 
been  the  first  white  child  born  in  the  province.  But  he 
was  still  more  illustrious  for  his  wealth  and  dignity; 
he  had  long  filled  the  noble  office  of  alderman,  and  was 


228  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

a  man  to  whom  the  governor  himself  took  off  his  hat. 
He  had  maintained  possession  of  the  leather-bottomed 
chair  from  time  immemorial,  and  had  gradually  waxed 
in  bulk  as  he  sat  in  his  seat  of  government,  until  in  the 
course  of  years  he  filled  its  whole  magnitude.  His 
word  was  decisive  with  his  subjects;  for  he  was  so  rich 
a  man,  that  he  was  never  expected  to  support  any 
opinion  by  argument.  The  landlord  waited  on  him 
with  peculiar  ofhciousness;  not  that  he  paid  better 
than  his  neighbors,  but  then  the  coin  of  a  rich  man 
seems  always  to  be  so  much  more  acceptable.  The 
landlord  had  ever  a  pleasant  word  and  a  joke,  to  insinu- 
ate in  the  ear  of  the  august  Ramm.  It  is  true,  Ramm 
never  laughed,  and,  indeed,  ever  maintained  a  mastiff- 
like gravity,  and  even  surliness  of  aspect,  yet  he  now 
and  then  rewarded  mine  host  with  a  token  of  approba- 
tion, which  though  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  kind 
of  grunt,  still  delighted  the  landlord  more  than  a  broad 
laugh  from  a  poorer  man. 

"This  will  be  a  rough  night  for  the  money-diggers," 
said  mine  host,  as  a  gust  of  wind  howled  round  the  house 
and  rattled  at  the  windows. 

"What!  are  they  at  their  work  again.'"'  said  an 
English  half  pay  captain,  with  one  eye,  who  was  a  very 
frequent  attendant  at  the  inn. 

"Aye,  are  they,"  said  the  landlord,  "and  well  may 
they  be.  They've  had  luck  of  late.  They  say  a  great 
pot  of  money  has  been  dug  up  in  the  fields,  just  behind 
Stuyvesant's  orchard.  Folks  think  it  must  have  been 
buried  there  in  old  times,  by  Peter  Stuyvesant,  the 
Dutch  governor." 


Golden  Dreams  229 

"Fudge!"  said  the  one-eyed  man  of  war,  as  he  added 
a  small  portion  of  water  to  a  bottom  of  brandy. 

"Well,  you  may  believe  it,  or  not,  as  you  please," 
said  mine  host,  somewhat  nettled,  "but  everybody 
knows  that  the  old  governor  buried  a  large  deal  of  his 
money  at  the  time  of  the  Dutch  troubles,  when  the 
English  redcoats  seized  on  the  province.  They  say, 
too,  the  old  gentleman  walks,  aye,  and  in  the  very  same 
dress  that  he  wears  in  the  picture  that  hangs  up  in  the 
family  house." 

"Fudge!"  said  the  half  pay  officer. 

"Fudge,  if  you  please! — But  didn't  Corney  Van 
Zandt  see  him  at  midnight,  stalking  about  in  the 
meadow  with  his  wooden  leg,  and  a  drawn  sword  in  his 
hand,  that  flashed  like  fire.''  And  what  can  he  be  walk- 
ing for,  but  because  people  have  been  troubling  the 
place  where  he  buried  his  money  in  old  times  .f*" 

Here  the  landlord  was  interrupted  by  several  gut- 
tural sounds  from  Ramm  Rapelye,  betokening  that  he 
was  laboring  with  the  unusual  production  of  an  idea. 
As  he  was  too  great  a  man  to  be  slighted  by  a  prudent 
publican,  mine  host  respectfully  paused  until  he  should 
deliver  himself.  The  corpulent  frame  of  this  mighty 
burgher  now  gave  all  the  symptoms  of  a  volcanic 
mountain  on  the  point  of  an  eruption.  First,  there 
was  a  certain  heaving  of  the  abdomen,  not  unlike  an 
earthquake;  then  was  emitted  a  cloud  of  tobacco- 
smoke  from  that  crater,  his  mouth;  then  there  was  a 
kind  of  rattle  in  the  throat,  as  if  the  idea  were  working 
its  way  up  through  a  region  of  phlegm;  then  there  were 
several  disjointed  members  of  a  sentence  thrown  out, 


230  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

ending  in  a  cough;  at  length  his  voice  forced  its  way 
in  the  slow,  but  absolute  tone  of  a  man  who  feels  the 
weight  of  his  purse,  if  not  of  his  ideas;  every  portion 
of  his  speech  being  marked  by  a  testy  puff  of  tobacco- 
smoke. 

"Who  talks  of  old  Peter  Stuyvesant's  walking? — 
puff — Have  people  no  respect  for  persons? — puff — 
puff — Peter  Stuyvesant  knew  better  what  to  do  with 
his  money  than  to  bury  it — puff — I  know  the  Stuy- 
vesant family — puff — every  one  of  them — puff — not  a 
more  respectable  family  in  the  province — puff — old 
standards — puff — warm  householders — puff — none  of 
your  upstarts — puff — puff — puff. — Don't  talk  to  me  of 
Peter  Stuyvesant's  walking — puff — puff — puff — puff." 

Here  the  redoubtable  Ramm  contracted  his  brow, 
clasped  up  his  mouth,  till  it  wrinkled  at  each  corner, 
and  redoubled  his  smoking,  with  such  vehemence  that 
the  cloudy  volumes  soon  wreathed  round  his  head,  as 
the  smoke  envelopes  the  awful  summit  of  Mount  Etna. 

A  general  silence  followed  the  sudden  rebuke  of  this 
very  rich  man.  The  subject,  however,  was  too  inter- 
esting to  be  readily  abandoned.  The  conversation  soon 
broke  forth  again  from  the  lips  of  Peechy  Prauw  Van 
Hook,  the  chronicler  of  the  club,  one  of  those  prosing, 
narrative  old  men,  who  seem  to  be  troubled  with  an 
incontinence  of  words,  as  they  grow  old. 

Peechy  could,  at  any  time,  tell  as  many  stories  in  an 
evening  as  his  hearers  could  digest  in  a  month.  He  now 
resumed  the  conversation,  by  affirming  that,  to  his 
knowledge,  money  had  at  different  times  been  digged 
up  in  various  parts  of  the  island.     The  lucky  persons 


1 
I 


Golden  Dreams  231 

who  had  discovered  them  had  always  dreamt  of  them 
three  times  beforehand,  and  what  was  worthy  of  re- 
mark, those  treasures  had  never  been  found  but  by 
some  descendant  of  the  good  old  Dutch  families,  which 
clearly  proved  that  they  had  been  buried  by  Dutchmen 
in  the  olden  time. 

"Fiddlestick  with  your  Dutchmen!"  cried  the  half 
pay  officer.  "The  Dutch  had  nothing  to  do  with  them. 
They  were  all  buried  by  Kidd  the  pirate,  and  his  crew." 

Here  a  keynote  was  touched  that  roused  the  whole 
company.  The  name  of  Captain  Kidd  was  like  a  talis- 
man in  those  times,  and  was  associated  with  a  thousand 
marvellous  stories. 

The  half  pay  officer  took  the  lead,  and  in  his  narra- 
tions fathered  upon  Kidd  all  the  plunderings  and  ex- 
ploits of  Morgan,  Blackbeard,  and  the  whole  list  of 
bloody  buccaneers. 

The  officer  was  a  man  of  great  weight  among  the 
peaceable  members  of  the  club,  by  reason  of  his  war- 
like character  and  gunpowder  tales.  All  his  golden 
stories  of  Kidd,  however,  and  of  the  booty  he  had 
buried,  were  obstinately  rivalled  by  the  tales  of  Peechy 
Prauw,  who,  rather  than  suffer  his  Dutch  progenitors 
to  be  eclipsed  by  a  foreign  freebooter,  enriched  every 
field  and  shore  in  the  neighborhood  with  the  hidden 
wealth  of  Peter  Stuyvesant  and  his  contemporaries. 

Not  a  word  of  this  conversation  was  lost  upon  Wolfert 
Webber.  He  returned  pensively  home,  full  of  magnifi- 
cent ideas.  The  soil  of  his  native  island  seemed  to  be 
turned  into  gold  dust,  and  every  field  to  teem  with 
treasure.     His  head  almost  reeled  at  the  thought  how 


/ 


232  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

often  he  must  have  heedlessly  rambled  over  places 
where  countless  sums  lay,  scarcely  covered  by  the  turf 
beneath  his  feet.  His  mind  was  in  an  uproar  with  this 
whirl  of  new  ideas.  As  he  came  in  sight  of  the  venera- 
ble mansion  of  his  forefathers,  and  the  little  realm 
where  the  Webbers  had  so  long  and  so  contentedly 
flourished,  his  gorge  rose  at  the  narrowness  of  his 
destiny. 

"Unlucky  Wolfert!"  exclaimed  he;  "others  can  go 
to  bed  and  dream  themselves  into  whole  mines  of 
wealth;  they  have  but  to  seize  a  spade  in  the  morning, 
and  turn  up  doubloons  like  potatoes;  but  thou  must 
dream  of  hardships,  and  rise  to  poverty — must  dig  thy 
field  from  year's  end  to  year's  end,  and  yet  raise  noth- 
ing but  cabbages!" 

Wolfert  Webber  went  to  bed  with  a  heavy  heart; 
and  it  was  long  before  the  golden  visions  that  disturbed 
his  brain  permitted  him  to  sink  into  repose.  The  same 
visions,  however,  extended  into  his  sleeping  thoughts, 
and  assumed  a  more  definite  form.  He  dreamt  that  he 
had  discovered  an  immense  treasure  in  the  centre  of  his 
garden.  At  every  stroke  of  the  spade  he  laid  bare  a 
golden  ingot;  diamond  crosses  sparkled  out  of  the  dust; 
bags  of  money  turned  up  their  bellies,  corpulent  with 
pieces-of-eight,  or  venerable  doubloons;  and  chests, 
wedged  close  with  moidores,  ducats,  and  pistareens, 
yawned  before  his  ravished  eyes,  and  vomited  forth 
their  glittering  contents. 

Wolfert  awoke  a  poorer  man  than  ever.  He  had  no 
heart  to  go  about  his  daily  concerns,  which  appeared 
so  paltry  and  profitless;    but  sat  all  day  long  in  the 


Golden  Dreams  233 

chimney  corner,  picturing  to  himself  ingots  and  heaps 
of  gold  in  the  fire.  The  next  night  his  dream  was  re- 
peated. He  was  again  in  his  garden,  digging,  and  laying 
open  stores  of  hidden  wealth.  There  was  something 
very  singular  in  this  repetition.  He  passed  another 
day  of  reverie,  and  though  it  was  cleaning-day,  and  the 
house,  as  usual  in  Dutch  households,  completely  topsy- 
turvy, yet  he  sat  unmoved  amidst  the  general  uproar. 

The  third  night  he  went  to  bed  with  a  palpitating 
heart.  He  put  on  his  red  nightcap  wrong  side  out- 
wards, for  good  luck.  It  was  deep  midnight  before  his 
anxious  mind  could  settle  itself  into  sleep.  Again  the 
golden  dream  was  repeated,  and  again  he  saw  his  garden 
teeming  with  ingots  and  money  bags. 

Wolfert  rose  the  next  morning  in  complete  bewilder- 
ment. A  dream  three  times  repeated  was  never  known 
to  lie;    and  if  so,  his  fortune  was  made. 

In  his  agitation  he  put  on  his  waistcoat  with  the  hind 
part  before,  and  this  was  a  corroboration  of  good  luck. 
He  no  longer  doubted  that  a  huge  store  of  money  lay 
buried  somewhere  in  his  cabbage  field,  coyly  waiting 
to  be  sought  for;  and  he  repined  at  having  so  long  been 
scratching  about  the  surface  of  the  soil  instead  of 
digging  to  the  centre. 

He  took  his  seat  at  the  breakfast  table  full  of  these 
speculations;  asked  his  daughter  to  put  a  lump  of  gold 
into  his  tea,  and  on  handing  his  wife  a  plate  of  slap- 
jacks, begged  her  to  help  herself  to  a  doubloon. 

His  grand  care  now  was  how  to  secure  this  immense 
treasure  without  its  being  known.  Instead  of  working 
regularly  in  his  grounds  in  the  daytime,  he  now  stole 


234  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

from  his  bed  at  night,  and  with  spade  and  pickaxe, 
went  to  work  to  rip  up  and  dig  about  his  paternal  acres, 
from  one  end  to  the  other.  In  a  little  time  the  whole 
garden,  which  had  presented  such  a  goodly  and  regular 
appearance,  with  its  phalanx  of  cabbages,  like  a  vege- 
table army  in  battle  array,  was  reduced  to  a  scene  of 
devastation;  while  the  relentless  Wolfert,  with  night- 
cap on  head,  and  lantern  and  spade  in  hand,  stalked 
through  the  slaughtered  ranks,  the  destroying  angel  of 
his  own  vegetable  world. 

Every  morning  bore  testimony  to  the  ravages  of  the 
preceding  night  in  cabbages  of  all  ages  and  conditions, 
from  the  tender  sprout  to  the  full-grown  head,  piteously 
rooted  from  their  quiet  beds  like  worthless  weeds,  and 
left  to  wither  in  the  sunshine.  In  vain  Wolfert's  wife 
remonstrated;  in  vain  his  darling  daughter  wept  over 
the  destruction  of  some  favorite  marigold.  "Thou 
shalt  have  gold  of  another  guess  sort,"  he  would  cry, 
chucking  her  under  the  chin;  "thou  shalt  have  a  string 
of  crooked  ducats  for  thy  wedding  necklace,  my  child." 
His  family  began  really  to  fear  that  the  poor  man's  wits 
were  diseased.  He  muttered  in  his  sleep  at  night  about 
mines  of  wealth,  about  pearls  and  diamonds  and  bars 
of  gold.  In  the  daytime  he  was  moody  and  abstracted, 
and  walked  about  as  if  in  a  trance.  Dame  Webber  held 
frequent  councils  with  all  the  old  women  of  the  neigh- 
borhood; scarce  an  hour  in  the  day  but  a  knot  of  them 
might  be  seen  wagging  their  white  caps  together  round 
her  door,  while  the  poor  woman  made  some  piteous 
recital.  The  daughter  too  was  fain  to  seek  for  more 
frequent  consolation  from  the  stolen  interviews  of  her 


Golden  Dreams  235 

favored  swain  Dirk  Waldron.  The  delectable  little 
Dutch  songs  with  which  she  used  to  dulcify  the  house 
grew  less  and  less  frequent,  and  she  would  forget  her 
sewing  and  look  wistfully  in  her  father's  face,  as  he  sat 
pondering  by  the  fireside.  Wolfert  caught  her  eye  one 
day  fixed  on  him  thus  anxiously,  and  for  a  moment  was 
roused  from  his  golden  reveries. — "Cheer  up,  my  girl," 
said  he,  exultingly,  "why  dost  thou  droop .^ — thou  shalt 
hold  up  thy  head  one  day  with  the  Brinkerhoffs  and  the 
Schermerhorns,  the  Van  Horns  and  the  Van  Dams. — 
By  Saint  Nicholas,  but  the  patroon  himself  shall  be 
glad  to  get  thee  for  his  son!" 

Amy  shook  her  head  at  this  vainglorious  boast,  and 
was  more  than  ever  in  doubt  of  the  soundness  of  the 
good  man's  intellect. 

In  the  meantime  Wolfert  went  on  digging  and  dig- 
ging; but  the  field  was  extensive,  and  as  his  dream  had 
indicated  no  precise  spot,  he  had  to  dig  at  random. 
The  winter  set  in  before  one  tenth  of  the  scene  of  prom- 
ise had  been  explored. 

The  ground  became  frozen  hard,  and  the  nights  too 
cold  for  the  labors  of  the  spade. 

No  sooner,  however,  did  the  returning  warmth  of 
spring  loosen  the  soil,  and  the  small  frogs  begin  to  pipe 
in  the  meadows,  but  Wolfert  resumed  his  labors  with 
renovated  zeal.  Still,  however,  the  hours  of  industry 
were  reversed. 

Instead  of  working  cheerily  all  day,  planting  and 
setting  out  his  vegetables,  he  remained  thoughfully  idle, 
until  the  shades  of  night  summoned  him  to  his  secret 
labors.     In  this  way  he  continued  to  dig  from  night  to 


236  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

night,  and  week  to  week,  and  month  to  month,  but  not 
a  stiver  did  he  find.  On  the  contrary,  the  more  he 
digged,  the  poorer  he  grew.  The  rich  soil  of  his  garden 
was  digged  away,  and  the  sand  and  gravel  from  be- 
neath were  thrown  to  the  surface,  until  the  whole  field 
presented  an  aspect  of  sandy  barrenness. 

In  the  meantime  the  seasons  gradually  rolled  on. 
The  little  frogs  which  had  piped  in  the  meadows  in 
early  spring,  croaked  as  bullfrogs  during  the  summer 
heats,  and  then  sank  into  silence.  The  peach  tree 
budded,  blossomed,  and  bore  its  fruit.  The  swallows 
and  martins  came,  twittered  about  the  roof,  built  their 
nests,  reared  their  young,  held  their  congress  along  the 
eaves,  and  then  winged  their  flight  in  search  of  another 
spring.  The  caterpillar  spun  its  winding  sheet,  dangled 
in  it  from  the  great  button  wood  tree  before  the  house; 
turned  into  a  moth,  fluttered  with  the  last  sunshine  of 
summer,  and  disappeared;  and  finally  the  leaves  of  the 
button  wood  tree  turned  yellow,  then  brown,  then 
rustled  one  by  one  to  the  ground,  and  whirling  about  in 
little  eddies  of  wind  and  dust,  whispered  that  winter 
was  at  hand. 

Wolfert  gradually  woke  from  his  dream  of  wealth  as 
the  year  declined.  He  had  reared  no  crop  for  the  supply 
of  his  household  during  the  sterility  of  winter.  The 
season  was  long  and  severe,  and  for  the  first  time  the 
family  was  really  straitened  in  its  comforts.  By  degrees 
a  revulsion  of  thought  took  place  in  Wolfert's  mind, 
common  to  those  whose  golden  dreams  have  been  dis- 
turbed by  pinching  realities.  The  idea  gradually  stole 
upon  him  that  he  should  come  to  want.     He  already 


J 

I 


Golden  Dreams  237 

considered  himself  one  of  the  most  unfortunate  men  in 
the  province,  having  lost  such  an  incalculable  amount 
of  undiscovered  treasure,  and  now,  when  thousands  of 
pounds  had  eluded  his  search,  to  be  perplexed  for  shil- 
lings and  pence  was  cruel  in  the  extreme. 

Haggard  care  gathered  about  his  brow;  he  went 
about  with  a  money-seeking  air,  his  eyes  bent  down- 
wards into  the  dust,  and  carrying  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  as  men  are  apt  to  do  when  they  have  nothing 
else  to  put  into  them.  He  could  not  even  pass  the  city 
almshouse  without  giving  it  a  rueful  glance,  as  if 
it  were  destined  to  be  his  future  abode. 

The  strangeness  of  his  conduct  and  of  his  looks  occa- 
sioned much  speculation  and  remark.  For  a  long  time 
he  was  suspected  of  being  crazy,  and  then  everybody 
pitied  him;  at  length  it  began  to  be  suspected  that  he 
was  poor,  and  then  everybody  avoided  him. 

The  rich  old  burghers  of  his  acquaintance  met  him 
outside  of  the  door  when  he  called,  entertained  him 
hospitably  on  the  threshold,  pressed  him  warmly  by 
the  hand  at  parting,  shook  their  heads  as  he  walked 
away,  with  the  kind-hearted  expression  of  "Poor 
Wolfert,"  and  turned  a  corner  nimbly,  if  by  chance 
they  saw  him  approaching  as  they  walked  the  streets. 
Even  the  barber  and  the  cobbler  of  the  neighborhood, 
and  a  tattered  tailor  in  an  alley  hard  by,  three  of  the 
poorest  and  merriest  rogues  in  the  world,  eyed  him  with 
that  abundant  sympathy  which  usually  attends  a  lack 
of  means;  and  there  is  not  a  doubt  but  their  pockets 
would  have  been  at  his  command,  only  that  they  hap- 
pened to  be  empty. 


238  Stones  of  the  Hudson 

Thus  everybody  deserted  the  Webber  mansion,  as  if 
poverty  were  contagious,  Hke  the  plague;  everybody 
but  honest  Dirk  Waldron,  who  still  kept  up  his  stolen 
visits  to  the  daughter,  and  indeed  seemed  to  wax  more 
affectionate  as  the  fortunes  of  his  mistress  were  in  the 
wane. 

Many  months  had  elapsed  since  Wolfert  had  fre- 
quented his  old  resort,  the  rural  inn.  He  was  taking  a 
long  lonely  walk  one  Saturday  afternoon,  musing  over 
his  wants  and  disappointments,  when  his  feet  took 
instinctively  their  wonted  direction,  and  on  awaking 
out  of  a  reverie,  he  found  himself  before  the  door  of  the 
inn.  For  some  moments  he  hesitated  whether  to  enter, 
but  his  heart  yearned  for  companionship;  and  where 
can  a  ruined  man  find  better  companionship  than  at  a 
tavern,  where  there  is  neither  sober  example  nor  sober 
advice  to  put  him  out  of  countenance.'' 

Wolfert  found  several  of  the  old  frequenters  of  the 
inn  at  their  usual  posts,  and  seated  in  their  usual  places; 
but  one  was  missing,  the  great  Ramm  Rapelye,  who 
for  many  years  had  filled  the  leather-bottomed  chair 
of  state.  His  place  was  supplied  by  a  stranger,  who 
seemed,  however,  completely  at  home  In  the  chair  and 
the  tavern.  He  was  rather  under  size,  but  deep  chested, 
square,  and  muscular.  His  broad  shoulders,  double 
joints,  and  bow  knees,  gave  tokens  of  prodigious 
strength.  His  face  was  dark  and  weather-beaten;  a 
deep  scar,  as  if  from  the  slash  of  a  cutlass,  had  almost 
divided  his  nose,  and  made  a  gash  in  his  upper  lip, 
through  which  his  teeth  shone  like  a  bulldog's.  A  mop 
of  iron-grey  hair  gave  a  grizzly  finish  to  liis  hard-favored 


Golden  Dreams  239 

visage.  His  dress  was  of  an  amphibious  character. 
He  wore  an  old  hat  edged  with  tarnished  lace,  and 
cocked  in  martial  style,  on  one  side  of  his  head;  a  rusty 
blue  military  coat  with  brass  buttons,  and  a  wide  pair 
of  short  petticoat  trowsers,  or  rather  breeches,  for  they 
were  gathered  up  at  the  knees.  He  ordered  everybody 
about  him  with  an  authoritative  air;  talked  in  a  brat- 
tling voice,  that  sounded  like  the  crackling  of  thorns 

under  a  pot;    d d  the  landlord  and  servants  with 

perfect  impunity,  and  was  waited  upon  with  greater 
obsequiousness  than  had  ever  been  shown  to  the  mighty 
Ramm  himself. 

Wolfert's  curiosity  was  awakened  to  know  who  and 
what  was  the  stranger  who  had  thus  usurped  absolute 
sway  in  this  ancient  domain.  Peechy  Prauw  took  him 
aside  into  a  remote  corner  of  the  hall,  and  there,  in  an 
under-voice,  and  with  great  caution,  imparted  to  him 
all  that  he  knew  on  the  subject.  The  inn  had  been 
aroused  several  months  before,  on  a  dark,  stormy  night, 
by  repeated  long  shouts,  that  seemed  like  the  bowlings 
of  a  wolf.  They  came  from  the  waterside;  and  at 
length  were  distinguished  to  be  hailing  the  house  in  a 
seafaring  manner,  "House  ahoy!"  The  landlord  turned 
out  with  his  head  waiter,  tapster,  hostler,  and  errand 
boy — that  is  to  say,  with  his  old  negro.  Cuff.  On  ap- 
proaching the  place  whence  the  voice  proceeded,  they 
found  this  amphibious-looking  personage  at  the  water's 
edge,  quite  alone,  and  seated  on  a  great  oaken  sea  chest. 
How  he  came  there,  whether  he  had  been  set  on  shore 
from  some  boat,  or  had  floated  to  land  on  his  chest, 
nobody  could  tell,  for  he  did  not  seem  disposed  to  an- 


240  Stones  of  the  Hudson 

swer  questions,  and  there  was  something  in  his  looks 
and  manners  that  put  a  stop  to  all  questioning.  Suffice 
it  to  say,  he  took  possession  of  a  corner  room  of  the  inn, 
to  which  his  chest  was  removed  with  great  difficulty. 
Here  he  had  remained  ever  since,  keeping  about  the 
inn  and  its  vicinity.  Sometimes,  it  is  true,  he  disap- 
peared, for  one,  two,  or  three  days  at  a  time,  going  and 
returning  without  giving  any  notice  or  account  of  his 
movements.  He  always  appeared  to  have  plenty  of 
money,  though  often  of  a  very  strange  outlandish  coin- 
age, and  he  regularly  paid  his  bill  every  evening  before 
turning  in. 

He  had  fitted  up  his  room  to  his  own  fancy,  having 
slung  a  hammock  from  the  ceiling  instead  of  a  bed,  and 
decorated  the  walls  with  rusty  pistols  and  cutlasses  of 
foreign  workmanship.  A  great  part  of  his  time  was 
passed  in  this  room,  seated  by  the  window,  which  com- 
manded a  wide  view  of  the  Sound,  a  short  old-fashioned 
pipe  in  his  mouth,  a  glass  of  rum  toddy  at  his  elbow, 
and  a  pocket  telescope  in  his  hand,  with  which  he  recon- 
noitred every  boat  that  moved  upon  the  water.  Large 
square-rigged  vessels  seemed  to  excite  but  little  atten- 
tion, but  tlic  moment  he  descried  anything  with  a 
shoulder-of-mutton  sail,  or  that  a  barge,  or  yawl,  or 
jolly-boat  hove  in  sight,  up  went  the  telescope,  and  he 
examined  it  with  the  most  scrupulous  attention. 

All  this  might  have  passed  without  much  notice,  for 
in  those  times  the  province  was  so  much  the  resort  of 
adventurers  of  all  characters  and  climes,  that  any  oddity 
in  dress  or  behavior  attracted  but  small  attention.  In 
a  little  while,  however,  this  strange  sea  monster,  thus 


Golden  Dreams  241 

strangely  cast  upon  dry  land,  began  to  encroach  upon 
the  long-established  customs  and  customers  of  the  place, 
and  to  interfere  in  a  dictatorial  manner  in  the  affairs  of 
the  ninepin  alley  and  the  barroom,  until,  in  the  end, 
he  usurped  an  absolute  command  over  the  whole  inn. 
It  was  all  in  vain  to  attempt  to  withstand  his  authority. 
He  was  not  exactly  quarrelsome,  but  boisterous  and 
peremptory,  like  one  accustomed  to  tyrannize  on  a 
quarter-deck;  and  there  was  a  dare-devil  air  about 
everything  he  said  and  did,  that  inspired  a  wariness  In 
all  bystanders.  Even  the  half  pay  officer,  so  long  the 
hero  of  the  club,  was  soon  silenced  by  him,  and  the 
quiet  burghers  stared  with  wonder  at  seeing  their  in- 
flammable man  of  war  so  readily  and  quietly  ex- 
tinguished. 

And  then  the  tales  that  he  would  tell  were  enough  to 
make  a  peaceable  man's  hair  stand  on  end.  There  was 
not  a  sea  fight,  nor  marauding  nor  freebooting  adven- 
ture that  had  happened  within  the  last  twenty  years, 
but  he  seemed  perfectly  versed  In  it.  He  delighted  to 
talk  of  the  exploits  of  the  buccaneers  in  the  West  Indies 
and  on  the  Spanish  Main.  How  his  eyes  would  glisten 
as  he  described  the  waylaying  of  treasure  ships,  the 
desperate  fights,  yardarm  and  yardarm  —  broadside 
and  broadside — the  boarding  and  capturing  of  huge 
Spanish  galleons!  With  what  chuckling  relish  would 
he  describe  the  descent  upon  some  rich  Spanish  colony; 
the  rifling  of  a  church;  the  sacking  of  a  convent!  You 
would  have  thought  you  heard  some  gormandizer 
dilating  upon  the  roasting  of  a  savory  goose  at  Michael- 
mas as  he  described  the  roasting  of  some  Spanish  don 


242  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

to  make  him  discover  his  treasure — a  detail  given  with 
a  minuteness  that  made  every  rich  old  burgher  present 
turn  uncomfortably  in  his  chair.  All  this  would  be  told 
with  infinite  glee,  as  if  he  considered  it  an  excellent 
joke;  and  then  he  would  give  such  a  tyrannical  leer  in 
the  face  of  his  next  neighbor,  that  the  poor  man  would 
be  fain  to  laugh  out  of  sheer  falnt-heartedness.  If  any 
one,  however,  pretended  to  contradict  him  in  any  of 
his  stories  he  was  on  fire  in  an  instant.  His  very  cocked 
hat  assumed  a  momentary  fierceness,  and  seemed  to 
resent  the  contradiction.  "How  the  devil  should  you 
know  as  well  as  I.'' — I  tell  you  it  was  as  I  say;"  and  he 
would  at  the  same  time  let  slip  a  broadside  of  thunder- 
ing oaths  and  tremendous  sea  phrases,  such  as  had 
never  been  heard  before  within  these  peaceful  walls. 

Indeed,  the  worthy  burghers  began  to  surmise  that 
he  knew  more  of  these  stories  than  mere  hearsay.  Day 
after  day  their  conjectures  concerning  him  grew  more 
and  more  wild  and  fearful.  The  strangeness  of  his 
arrival,  the  strangeness  of  his  manners,  the  mystery 
that  surrounded  him,  all  made  him  something  incom- 
prehensible in  their  eyes.  He  was  a  kind  of  monster  of 
the  deep  to  them — he  was  a  merman — he  was  a  behe- 
moth— he  was  a  leviathan — in  short,  they  knew  not 
what  he  was. 

The  domineering  spirit  of  this  boisterous  sea-urchin 
at  length  grew  quite  intolerable.  He  was  no  respecter 
of  persons;  he  contradicted  the  richest  burghers  with- 
out hesitation;  he  took  possession  of  the  sacred  elbow 
chair,  which,  time  out  of  mind,  had  been  the  seat  of 
sovereignty  of  the  illustrious  Ramm  Rapelye.     Nay, 


\ 


Golden  Dreams  243 

he  even  went  so  far  In  one  of  his  rough  jocular  moods, 
as  to  slap  that  mighty  burgher  on  the  back,  drink  his 
toddy,  and  wink  in  his  face,  a  thing  scarcely  to  be  be- 
lieved. From  this  time  Ramm  Rapelye  appeared  no 
more  at  the  inn;  his  example  was  followed  by  several 
of  the  most  eminent  customers,  who  were  too  rich  to 
tolerate  being  bullied  out  of  their  opinions,  or  being 
obliged  to  laugh  at  another  man's  jokes.  The  landlord 
was  almost  in  despair;  but  he  knew  not  how  to  get  rid 
of  this  sea  monster  and  his  sea  chest,  who  seemed  both 
to  have  grown  like  fixtures,  or  excrescences,  on  his 
establishment. 

Such  was  the  account  whispered  cautiously  in  Wol- 
fert's  ear,  by  the  narrator,  Peechy  Prauw,  as  he  held 
him  by  the  button,  in  a  corner  of  the  hall,  casting  a 
wary  glance  now  and  then  towards  the  door  of  the  bar- 
room, lest  he  should  be  overheard  by  the  terrible  hero 
of  his  tale. 

Wolfert  took  his  seat  in  a  remote  part  of  the  room  in 
silence;  impressed  with  profound  awe  of  this  unknown, 
so  versed  in  freebooting  history.  It  was  to  him  a  won- 
derful instance  of  the  revolutions  of  mighty  empires,  to 
find  the  venerable  Ramm  Rapelye  thus  ousted  from 
the  throne,  and  a  rugged  tarpauling  dictating  from  his 
elbow  chair,  hectoring  the  patriarchs,  and  filling  this 
tranquil  little  realm  with  brawl  and  bravado. 

The  stranger  was  on  this  evening  in  a  more  than 
usually  communicative  mood,  and  was  narrating  a 
number  of  astounding  stories  of  plunderings  and  burn- 
ings on  the  high  seas.  He  dwelt  upon  them  with  a 
peculiar  relish,  heightening  the  frightful  particulars  in 


244  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

proportion  to  their  effect  on  his  peaceful  auditors.  He 
gave  a  swaggering  detail  of  the  capture  of  a  Spanish 
merchantman.  She  was  lying  becalmed  during  a  long 
summer's  day,  just  off  from  an  island  which  was  one  of 
the  lurking  places  of  the  pirates.  They  had  reconnoitred 
her  with  their  spyglasses  from  the  shore,  and  ascer- 
tained her  character  and  force.  At  night  a  picked  crew 
of  daring  fellows  set  off  for  her  in  a  whaleboat.  They 
approached  with  muffled  oars,  as  she  lay  rocking  idly 
with  the  undulations  of  the  sea,  and  her  sails  flapping 
against  the  masts.  They  were  close  under  her  stern 
before  the  guard  on  deck  was  aware  of  their  approach. 
The  alarm  was  given;  the  pirates  threw  hand  grenades 
on  deck,  and  sprang  up  the  main  chains  sword  in  hand. 

The  crew  flew  to  arms,  but  in  great  confusion;  some 
were  shot  down,  others  took  refuge  in  the  tops;  others 
were  driven  overboard  and  drowned,  while  others 
fought  hand  to  hand  from  the  main  deck  to  the  quarter- 
deck, disputing  gallantly  every  inch  of  ground.  There 
were  three  Spanish  gentlemen  on  board  with  their 
ladies,  who  made  the  most  desperate  resistance.  They 
defended  the  companionway,  cut  down  several  of  their 
assailants,  and  fought  like  very  devils,  for  they  were 
maddened  by  the  shrieks  of  the  ladies  from  the  cabin. 
One  of  the  dons  was  old,  and  soon  dispatched.  The 
other  two  kept  their  ground  vigorously,  even  though 
the  captain  of  the  pirates  was  among  the  assailants. 
Just  then  there  was  a  shout  of  victory  from  the  main 
deck.    "The  ship  is  ours!"  cried  the  pirates. 

One  of  the  dons  immediately  dropped  his  sword  and 
surrendered;   the  other,  who  was  a  hot-headed  young- 


Golden  Dreams  245 

ster,  and  just  married,  gave  the  captain  a  slash  in  the 
face  that  laid  all  open.  The  captain  just  made  out  to 
articulate  the  words  "No  quarter." 

"And  what  did  they  do  with  their  prisoners?"  said 
Peechy  Prauw,  eagerly. 

"Threw  them  all  overboard!"  was  the  answer.  A 
dead  pause  followed  the  reply.  Peechy  Prauw  sank 
quietly  back,  like  a  man  who  had  unwarily  stolen  upon 
the  lair  of  a  sleeping  lion.  The  honest  burghers  cast 
fearful  glances  at  the  deep  scar  slashed  across  the  visage 
of  the  stranger,  and  moved  their  chairs  a  little  further 
off.  The  seaman,  however,  smoked  on  without  moving 
a  muscle,  as  though  he  either  did  not  perceive  or  did 
not  regard  the  unfavorable  effect  he  had  produced  upon 
his  hearers. 

The  half  pay  officer  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence, 
for  he  was  continually  tempted  to  make  ineffectual  head 
against  this  tyrant  of  the  seas,  and  to  regain  his  lost 
consequence  in  the  eyes  of  his  ancient  companions.  He 
now  tried  to  match  the  gunpowder  tales  of  the  stranger 
by  others  equally  tremendous.  Kidd,  as  usual,  was  his 
hero,  concerning  whom  he  seemed  to  have  picked  up 
many  of  the  floating  traditions  of  the  province.  The 
seaman  had  always  evinced  a  settled  pique  against  the 
one-eyed  warrior.  On  this  occasion  he  listened  with 
peculiar  impatience.  He  sat  with  one  arm  a-kimbo, 
the  other  elbow  on  a  table,  the  hand  holding  on  to  the 
small  pipe  he  was  pettishly  puffing,  his  legs  crossed, 
drumming  with  one  foot  on  the  ground,  and  casting 
every  now  and  then  the  side-glance  of  a  basilisk  at  the 
prosing  captain.    At  length  the  latter  spoke  of  Kidd's 


246  Stones  of  the  Hudson 

having  ascended  the  Hudson  with  some  of  his  crew,  to 
land  his  plunder  in  secrecy. 

"Kidd  up  the  Hudson!"  burst  forth  the  seaman,  with 
a  tremendous  oath — "Kidd  never  was  up  the  Hudson." 

"I  tell  you  he  was,"  said  the  other.  "Aye,  and  they 
say  he  buried  a  quantity  of  treasure  on  the  little  flat 
that  runs  out  into  the  river  called  the  Devil's  Dans 
Kammer." 

"The  Devil's  Dans  Kammer  in  your  teeth!"  cried 
the  seaman.  "  I  tell  you  Kidd  never  was  up  the  Hudson. 
What  a  plague  do  you  know  of  Kidd  and  his  haunts?" 

"What  do  I  know.^"  echoed  the  half  pay  oflflcer. 
"Why,  I  was  in  London  at  the  time  of  his  trial;  aye, 
and  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  hanged  at  Execu- 
tion Dock." 

"Then,  sir,  let  me  tell  you  that  you  saw  as  pretty  a 
fellow  hanged  as  ever  trod  shoe-leather.  Aye,"  putting 
his  face  nearer  to  that  of  the  officer,  "and  there  was 
many  a  landlubber  looked  on  that  might  much  better 
have  swung  in  his  stead." 

The  half  pay  officer  was  silenced,  but  the  indigna- 
tion thus  pent  up  in  his  bosom  glowed  with  intense 
vehemence  in  his  single  eye,  which  kindled  like  a  coal. 

Peechy  Prauw,  who  never  could  remain  silent,  ob- 
served that  the  gentleman  certainly  was  in  the  right. 
Kidd  never  did  bury  money  up  the  Hudson,  nor  indeed 
in  any  of  those  parts,  though  many  affirmed  such  to  be 
the  fact.  It  was  Bradish  and  others  of  the  buccaneers 
who  had  buried  money;  some  said  in  Turtle  Bay,  others 
on  Long  Island,  others  in  the  neighborhood  of  Hell 
Gate.     "Indeed,"  added  he,  "I  recollect  an  adventure 


Golden  Dreams  247 

of  Sam,  the  negro  fisherman,  many  years  ago,  which 
some  think  had  something  to  do  with  the  buccaneers. 
As  we  are  all  friends  here,  and  as  it  will  go  no  further, 
I'll  tell  it  to  you. 

"Upon  a  dark  night  many  years  ago,  as  Black  Sam 
was  returning  from  fishing  in  Hell  Gate " 

Here  the  story  was  nipped  in  the  bud  by  a  sudden 
movement  from  the  unknown,  who,  laying  his  iron  fist 
on  the  table,  knuckles  downward,  with  a  quiet  force 
that  indented  the  very  boards,  and  looking  grimly  over 
his  shoulder,  with  the  grin  of  an  angry  bear — "Heark'ee, 
neighbor,"  said  he,  with  significant  nodding  of  the  head, 
"you'd  better  let  the  buccaneers  and  their  money  alone 
— they're  not  for  old  men  and  old  women  to  meddle 
with.  They  fought  hard  for  their  money;  they  gave 
body  and  soul  for  it,  and  wherever  it  lies  burled,  depend 
upon  it  he  must  have  a  tug  with  the  devil  who  gets  it!" 

This  sudden  explosion  was  succeeded  by  a  blank 
silence  throughout  the  room.  Peechy  Prauw  shrank 
within  himself,  and  even  the  one-eyed  officer  turned 
pale.  Wolfert,  who  from  a  dark  corner  of  the  room  had 
listened  with  intense  eagerness  to  all  this  talk  about 
buried  treasure,  looked  with  mingled  awe  and  reverence 
at  this  bold  buccaneer,  for  such  he  really  suspected  him 
to  be.  There  was  a  chinking  of  gold  and  a  sparkling  of 
jewels  in  all  his  stories  about  the  Spanish  Main,  that 
gave  a  value  to  every  period,  and  Wolfert  would  have 
given  anything  for  the  rummaging  of  the  ponderous 
sea  chest,  which  his  imagination  crammed  full  of  golden 
chalices,  crucifixes,  and  jolly  round  bags  of  doubloons. 

The  dead  stillness  that  had  fallen  upon  the  company 


248  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

was  at  length  Interrupted  by  the  stranger,  who  pulled 
out  a  prodigious  watch  of  curious  and  ancient  workman- 
ship, and  which  in  Wolfert's  eyes  had  a  decidedly 
Spanish  look.  On  touching  a  spring  it  struck  ten 
o'clock;  upon  which  the  sailor  called  for  his  reckoning, 
and  having  paid  it  out  of  a  handful  of  outlandish  coin, 
he  drank  off  the  remainder  of  his  beverage,  and  without 
taking  leave  of  any  one,  rolled  out  of  the  room,  mutter- 
ing to  himself,  as  he  stamped  up  stairs  to  his  chamber. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  company  could  recover 
from  the  silence  into  which  they  had  been  thrown.  The 
very  footsteps  of  the  stranger,  which  were  heard  now 
and  then  as  he  traversed  his  chamber,  inspired  awe. 

Still  the  conversation  in  which  they  had  been  en- 
gaged was  too  interesting  not  to  be  resumed.  A  heavy 
thundergust  had  gathered  up  unnoticed  while  they 
were  lost  in  talk,  and  the  torrents  of  rain  that  fell  for- 
bade all  thoughts  of  setting  off  for  home  until  the  storm 
should  subside.  They  drew  nearer  together,  therefore, 
and  entreated  the  worthy  Peechy  Prauw  to  continue 
the  tale  which  had  been  so  discourteously  interrupted. 
He  readily  complied,  whispering,  however,  in  a  tone 
scarcely  above  his  breath,  and  drowned  occasionally 
by  the  rolling  of  the  thunder,  and  he  would  pause  every 
now  and  then,  and  listen  with  evident  awe,  as  he  heard 
the  heavy  footsteps  of  the  stranger  pacing  overhead. 

The  following  is  the  purport  of  his  story: 

Everybody  knows  Black  Sam,  the  old  negro  fisher- 
man, or,  as  he  is  commonly  called.  Mud  Sam,  who  has 
fished  about  the  Sound  for  the  last  half  century.  It  is 
now  many  years  since  Sam,  who  was  then  as  active  a 


Golden  Dreams  249 

young  negro  as  any  In  the  province,  and  worked  on  the 
farm  of  Kllllan  Suydam,  on  Long  Island,  having  fin- 
ished his  day's  work  at  an  early  hour,  was  fishing,  one 
still  summer  evening,  just  about  the  neighborhood  of 
Hell  Gate. 

He  was  In  a  light  skiff,  and  being  well  acquainted 
with  the  currents  and  eddies,  had  shifted  his  station, 
according  to  the  shifting  of  the  tide,  from  the  Hen  and 
Chickens  to  the  Hog's  Back,  from  the  Hog's  Back  to 
the  Pot,  and  from  the  Pot  to  the  Frying  Pan;  but  in 
the  eagerness  of  his  sport  he  did  not  see  that  the  tide 
was  rapidly  ebbing,  until  the  roaring  of  the  whirlpools 
and  eddies  warned  him  of  his  danger;  and  he  had  some 
difficulty  In  shooting  his  skiff  from  among  the  rocks  and 
breakers,  and  getting  to  the  point  of  Blackwell's  Island. 
Here  he  cast  anchor  for  some  time,  waiting  the  turn  of 
the  tide,  to  enable  him  to  return  homewards.  As  the 
night  set  in,  It  grew  blustering  and  gusty.  Dark  clouds 
came  bundling  up  In  the  west,  and  now  and  then  a 
growl  of  thunder  or  a  flash  of  lightning  told  that  a  sum- 
mer storm  was  at  hand.  Sam  pulled  over,  therefore, 
under  the  lee  of  Manhattan  Island,  and  coasting  along, 
came  to  a  snug  nook,  just  under  a  steep  beetling  rock, 
where  he  fastened  his  skiff  to  the  root  of  a  tree  that  shot 
out  from  a  cleft,  and  spread  Its  broad  branches  like  a 
canopy  over  the  water.  The  gust  came  scouring  along; 
the  wind  threw  up  the  river  In  white  surges;  the  rain 
rattled  among  the  leaves;  the  thunder  bellowed  worse 
than  that  which  is  now  bellowing;  the  lightning  seemed 
to  lick  up  the  surges  of  the  stream;  but  Sam,  snugly 
sheltered  under  rock  and  tree,  lay  crouching  In  his  skiff, 


250  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

rocking  upon  the  billows  until  he  fell  asleep.  When  he 
woke  all  was  quiet.  The  gust  had  passed  away,  and 
only  now  and  then  a  faint  gleam  of  lightning  in  the 
east  showed  which  way  it  had  gone.  The  night  was 
dark  and  moonless,  and  from  the  state  of  the  tide  Sam 
concluded  it  was  near  midnight.  He  was  on  the  point 
of  making  loose  his  skiff  to  return  homewards,  when  he 
saw  a  light  gleaming  along  the  water  from  a  distance, 
which  seemed  rapidly  approaching.  As  it  drew  near 
he  perceived  it  came  from  a  lantern  in  the  bow  of  a  boat 
gliding  along  under  shadow  of  the  land.  It  pulled  up 
in  a  small  cove,  close  to  where  he  was.  A  man  jumped 
on  shore,  and  searching  about  with  the  lantern,  ex- 
claimed, "This  is  the  place — here's  the  iron  ring."  The 
boat  was  then  made  fast,  and  the  man  returning  on 
board,  assisted  his  comrades  in  conveying  something 
heavy  on  shore.  As  the  light  gleamed  among  them, 
Sam  saw  that  they  were  five  stout  desperate-looking 
fellows,  in  red  woollen  caps,  with  a  leader  in  a  three- 
cornered  hat,  and  that  some  of  them  were  armed  with 
dirks,  or  long  knives,  and  pistols.  They  talked  low  to 
one  another,  and  occasionally  swore  in  some  outlandish 
tongue  which  he  could  not  understand. 

On  landing  they  made  their  way  among  the  bushes, 
taking  turns  to  relieve  each  other  in  lugging  their  burden 
up  the  rocky  bank.  Sam's  curiosity  was  now  fully 
aroused;  so,  leaving  his  skiff,  he  clambered  silently  up 
a  ridge  that  overlooked  their  path.  They  had  stopped 
to  rest  for  a  moment,  and  the  leader  was  looking  about 
among  the  bushes  with  his  lantern.  "Have  you  brought 
the  spades.^"  said  one.     "They  are  here,"  replied  an- 


Golden  Dreams  251 

other,  who  had  them  on  his  shoulder.  "We  must  dig 
deep,  where  there  will  be  no  risk  of  discovery,"  said  a 
third. 

A  cold  chill  ran  through  Sam's  veins.  He  fancied  he 
saw  before  him  a  gang  of  murderers,  about  to  bury 
their  victim.  His  knees  smote  together.  In  his  agita- 
tion he  shook  the  branch  of  a  tree  with  which  he  was  sup- 
porting himself  as  he  looked  over  the  edge  of  the  cliff. 

"What's  that?"  cried  one  of  the  gang.  "Some  one 
stirs  among  the  bushes!" 

The  lantern  was  held  up  in  the  direction  of  the  noise. 
One  of  the  red-caps  cocked  a  pistol,  and  pointed  it 
towards  the  very  place  where  Sam  was  standing.  He 
stood  motionless — breathless;  expecting  the  next  mo- 
ment to  be  his  last.  Fortunately  his  dingy  complexion 
was  in  his  favor,  and  made  no  glare  among  the  leaves. 

"  'Tis  no  one,"  said  the  man  with  the  lantern.  "What 
a  plague!  you  would  not  fire  off  your  pistol  and  alarm 
the  country!" 

The  pistol  was  uncocked;  the  burden  was  resumed, 
and  the  party  slowly  toiled  along  the  bank.  Sam 
watched  them  as  they  went;  the  light  sending  back 
fitful  gleams  through  the  dripping  bushes,  and  it  was 
not  till  they  were  fairly  out  of  sight  that  he  ventured 
to  draw  breath  freely.  He  now  thought  of  getting 
back  to  his  boat,  and  making  his  escape  out  of  the 
reach  of  such  dangerous  neighbors;  but  curiosity  was 
all-powerful.  He  hesitated  and  lingered  and  listened. 
By  and  by  he  heard  the  strokes  of  spades.  "They  are 
digging  the  grave!"  said  he  to  himself;  and  the  cold 
sweat  started  upon  his  forehead.     Every  stroke  of  a 


252  Stones  of  the  Hudson 

spade,  as  it  sounded  through  the  silent  groves,  went  to 
his  heart;  it  was  evident  there  was  as  Httle  noise  made 
as  possible;  everything  had  an  air  of  terrible  mystery 
and  secrecy.  Sam  had  a  great  relish  for  the  horrible — 
a  tale  of  murder  was  a  treat  for  him;  and  he  was  a  con- 
stant attendant  at  executions.  He  could  not  resist  an 
impulse,  in  spite  of  every  danger,  to  steal  nearer  to  the 
scene  of  mystery,  and  overlook  the  midnight  fellows  at 
their  work.  He  crawled  along  cautiously,  therefore, 
inch  by  inch;  stepping  with  the  utmost  care  among  the 
dry  leaves,  lest  their  rustling  should  betray  him.  He 
came  at  length  to  where  a  steep  rock  intervened  be- 
tween him  and  the  gang;  for  he  saw  the  light  of  their 
lantern  shining  up  against  the  branches  of  the  trees  on 
the  other  side.  Sam  slowly  and  silently  clambered  up 
the  surface  of  the  rock,  and  raising  his  head  above  its 
naked  edge,  beheld  the  villains  immediately  below  him, 
and  so  near,  that  though  he  dreaded  discovery,  he 
dared  not  withdraw  lest  the  least  movement  should  be 
heard.  In  this  way  he  remained,  with  his  round  black 
face  peering  above  the  edge  of  the  rock,  like  the  sun 
just  emerging  above  the  edge  of  the  horizon,  or  the 
round-cheeked  moon  on  the  dial  of  a  clock. 

The  red-caps  had  nearly  finished  their  work;  the 
grave  was  filled  up,  and  they  were  carefully  replacing 
the  turf.  This  done,  they  scattered  dry  leaves  over  the 
place.  "And  now,"  said  the  leader,  "I  defy  the  devil 
himself  to  find  it  out." 

"The  murderers!"  exclaimed  Sam,  involuntarily. 

The  whole  gang  started,  and  looking  up  beheld  the 
round  black  head  of  Sam  just  above  them;    his  white 


Golden  Dreams  253 

eyes  strained  half  out  of  their  orbits;  his  white  teeth 
chattering,  and  his  whole  visage  shining  with  cold 
perspiration, 

"We're  discovered!"  cried  one. 

"Down  with  him!"  cried  another. 

Sam  heard  the  cocking  of  a  pistol,  but  did  not  pause 
for  the  report.  He  scrambled  over  rock  and  stone, 
through  brush  and  brier;  rolled  down  banks  like  a 
hedgehog;  scrambled  up  others  like  a  catamount.  In 
every  direction  he  heard  some  one  or  other  of  the  gang 
hemming  him  in.  At  length  he  reached  the  rocky  ridge 
along  the  river;  one  of  the  red-caps  was  hard  behind 
him.  A  steep  rock  like  a  wall  rose  directly  in  his  way; 
it  seemed  to  cut  off  all  retreat,  when  fortunately  he 
espied  the  strong  cord-like  branch  of  a  grapevine  reach- 
ing half  way  down  it.  He  sprang  at  it  with  the  force  of 
a  desperate  man,  seized  it  with  both  hands,  and  being 
young  and  agile,  succeeded  in  swinging  himself  to  the 
summit  of  the  cliff.  Here  he  stood  in  full  relief  against 
the  sky,  when  the  red-cap  cocked  his  pistol  and  fired. 
The  ball  whistled  by  Sam's  head.  With  the  lucky 
thought  of  a  man  in  an  emergency,  he  uttered  a  yell, 
fell  to  the  ground,  and  detached  at  the  same  time  a 
fragment  of  the  rock,  which  tumbled  with  a  loud  splash 
into  the  river. 

"I've  done  his  business,"  said  the  red-cap  to  one  or 
two  of  his  comrades  as  they  arrived  panting.  "He'll 
tell  no  tales,  except  to  the  fishes  in  the  river." 

His  pursuers  now  turned  to  meet  their  companions. 
Sam  sliding  silently  down  the  surface  of  the  rock,  let 
himself  quietly  into  his  skiff,  cast  loose  the  fastening, 


254  Stones  of  the  Hudson 

and  abandoned  himself  to  the  rapid  current,  which  in 
that  place  runs  like  a  mill-stream,  and  soon  swept  him 
oflF  from  the  neighborhood.  It  was  not,  however,  until 
he  had  drifted  a  great  distance  that  he  ventured  to  ply 
his  oars;  when  he  made  his  skiff  dart  like  an  arrow 
through  the  strait  of  Hell  Gate,  never  heeding  the  danger 
of  Pot,  Frying  Pan,  nor  Hog's  Back  itself:  nor  did  he 
feel  himself  thoroughly  secure  until  safely  nestled  in 
bed  in  the  cockloft  of  the  ancient  farmhouse  of  the 
Suydams. 

Here  the  worthy  Peechy  Prauw  paused  to  take 
breath,  and  to  take  a  sip  of  the  gossip  tankard  that 
stood  at  his  elbow.  His  auditors  remained  with  open 
mouths  and  outstretched  necks,  gaping  like  a  nest  of 
swallows  for  an  additional  mouthful. 

"And  is  that  all.^"  exclaimed  the  half  pay  officer. 

"That's  all  that  belongs  to  the  story,"  said  Peechy 
Prauw. 

"And  did  Sam  never  find  out  what  was  buried  by 
the  red-caps.^"  said  Wolfert  eagerly,  whose  mind  was 
haunted  by  nothing  but  ingots  and  doubloons. 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  said  Peechy.  "He  had  no 
time  to  spare  from  his  work,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  he 
did  not  like  to  run  the  risk  of  another  race  among  the 
rocks.  Besides,  how  should  he  recollect  the  spot  where 
the  grave  had  been  digged.''  everything  would  look  so 
different  by  daylight.  And  then,  where  was  the  use  of 
looking  for  a  dead  body,  when  there  was  no  chance  of 
hanging  the  murderers.""' 

"Aye,  but  are  you  sure  it  was  a  dead  body  they 
buried.'"'  said  Wolfert. 


I 


Golden  Dreams  255 

"To  be  sure,"  cried  Peechy  Prauw,  exultingly. 
"Does  it  not  haunt  in  the  neighborhood  to  this  very 
day?" 

"Haunt!"  exclaimed  several  of  the  party,  opening 
their  eyes  still  wider,  and  edging  their  chairs  still  closer, 

"Aye,  haunt,"  repeated  Peechy;  "have  none  of  you 
heard  of  Father  Red-cap,  who  haunts  the  old  burnt 
farmhouse  in  the  woods,  on  the  border  of  the  Sound, 
near  Hell  Gate?" 

"Oh,  to  be  sure,  I've  heard  tell  of  something  of  the 
kind,  but  then  I  took  it  for  some  old  wives'  fable." 

"Old  wives'  fable  or  not,"  said  Peechy  Prauw,  "that 
farmhouse  stands  hard  by  the  very  spot.  It's  been 
unoccupied  time  out  of  mind,  and  stands  in  a  lonely 
part  of  the  coast;  but  those  who  fish  in  the  neighbor- 
hood have  often  heard  strange  noises  there;  and  lights 
have  been  seen  about  the  wood  at  night;  and  an  old 
fellow  in  a  red  cap  has  been  seen  at  the  windows  more 
than  once,  which  people  take  to  be  the  ghost  of  the  body 
buried  there.  Once  upon  a  time  three  soldiers  took 
shelter  in  the  building  for  the  night,  and  rummaged  it 
from  top  to  bottom,  when  they  found  old  Father  Red- 
cap astride  of  a  cider  barrel  in  the  cellar,  with  a  jug  in 
one  hand  and  a  goblet  in  the  other.  He  offered  them 
a  drink  out  of  his  goblet,  but  just  as  one  of  the  soldiers 
was  putting  it  to  his  mouth — whew! — a  flash  of  fire 
blazed  through  the  cellar,  blinded  every  mother's  son 
of  them  for  several  minutes,  and  when  they  recovered 
their  eyesight,  jug,  goblet,  and  Red-cap  had  vanished, 
and  nothing  but  the  empty  cider  barrel  remained," 

Here   the   half   pay   officer,  who   was   growing  very 


256  Stones  of  the  Hudson 

muzzy  and  sleepy,  and  nodding  over  his  Hquor  with 
half  extinguished  eye,  suddenly  gleamed  up  like  an 
expiring  rushlight. 

"That's  all  fudge!"  said  he,  as  Peechy  finished  his 
last  story. 

"Well,  I  don't  vouch  for  the  truth  of  it  myself,"  said 
Peechy  Prauw,  "though  all  the  world  knows  that  there's 
something  strange  about  that  house  and  grounds;  but 
as  to  the  story  of  Mud  Sam,  I  believe  it  just  as  well  as 
if  it  had  happened  to  myself." 

The  deep  interest  taken  in  this  conversation  by  the 
company  had  made  them  unconscious  of  the  uproar 
abroad  among  the  elements,  when  suddenly  they  were 
electrified  by  a  tremendous  clap  of  thunder.  A  lumber- 
ing crash  followed  instantaneously,  shaking  the  building 
to  its  very  foundation.  All  started  from  their  seats,  im- 
agining it  the  shock  of  an  earthquake,  or  that  old  Father 
Red-cap  was  coming  among  them  in  all  his  terrors. 
They  listened  for  a  moment,  but  only  heard  the  rain 
pelting  against  the  windows,  and  the  wind  howling 
among  the  trees.  The  explosion  was  soon  explained  by 
the  apparition  of  an  old  negro's  bald  head  thrust  in  at 
the  door,  his  white  goggle  eyes  contrasting  with  his 
jetty  poll,  which  was  wet  with  rain,  and  shone  like  a 
bottle.  In  a  jargon  but  half  intelligible,  he  announced 
that  the  kitchen  chimney  had  been  struck  with  light- 
ning. 

A  sullen  pause  of  the  storm,  which  now  rose  and  sank 
in  gusts,  produced  a  momentary  stillness.  In  this  in- 
terval the  report  of  a  musket  was  heard,  and  a  long 
shout,  almost  like  a  yell,  resounded  from   the   shore. 


Golden  Dreams  257 

Everyone  crowded  to  the  window;  another  musket- 
shot  was  heard,  and  another  long  shout,  mingled  wildly 
with  a  rising  blast  of  wind.  It  seemed  as  if  the  cry  came 
up  from  the  bosom  of  the  waters;  for  though  incessant 
flashes  of  lightning  spread  a  light  about  the  shore,  no 
one  was  to  be  seen. 

Suddenly  the  window  of  the  room  overhead  was 
opened,  and  a  loud  halloo  uttered  by  the  mysterious 
stranger.  Several  hailings  passed  from  one  party  to 
the  other,  but  in  a  language  which  none  of  the  company 
in  the  barroom  could  understand;  and  presently  they 
heard  the  window  closed,  and  a  great  noise  overhead,  as 
if  all  the  furniture  were  pulled  and  hauled  about  the 
room.  The  negro  servant  was  summoned,  and  shortly 
afterwards  was  seen  assisting  the  veteran  to  lug  the 
ponderous  sea  chest  down  stairs. 

The  landlord  was  in  amazement.  "What,  you  are 
not  going  on  the  water  in  such  a  storm  .^" 

"Storm!"  said  the  other,  scornfully,  "do  you  call 
such  a  sputter  of  weather  a  storm  .^" 

"You'll  get  drenched  to  the  skin  —  You'll  catch 
your  death!"  said  Peechy  Prauw,  affectionately. 

"Thunder  and  lightning!"  exclaimed  the  merman, 
"don't  preach  about  weather  to  a  man  that  has  cruised 
in  whirlwinds  and  tornadoes." 

The  obsequious  Peechy  was  again  struck  dumb. 
The  voice  from  the  water  was  heard  once  more  in  a 
tone  of  impatience;  the  bystanders  stared  with  re- 
doubled awe  at  this  man  of  storms,  who  seemed  to  have 
come  up  out  of  the  deep,  and  to  be  summoned  back  to 
it  again.    As,  with  the  assistance  of  the  negro,  he  slowly 


258  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

bore  his  ponderous  sea  chest  towards  the  shore,  they 
eyed  it  with  a  superstitious  feeHng;  half  doubting 
whether  he  were  not  really  about  to  embark  upon  it 
and  launch  forth  upon  the  wild  waves.  They  followed 
him  at  a  distance  with  a  lantern. 

"Dowse  the  light!"  roared  the  hoarse  voice  from  the 
water.    "No  one  wants  lights  here!" 

"Thunder  and  lightning!"  exclaimed  the  veteran, 
turning  short  upon  them;  "back  to  the  house  with 
you!" 

Wolfert  and  his  companions  shrank  back  in  dismay. 
Still  their  curiosity  would  not  allow  them  entirely  to 
withdraw.  A  long  sheet  of  lightning  now  flickered 
across  the  waves,  and  discovered  a  boat,  filled  with  men, 
just  under  a  rocky  point,  rising  and  sinking  with  the 
heaving  surges,  and  swashing  the  water  at  every  heave. 
It  was  with  difficulty  held  to  the  rocks  by  a  boat  hook, 
for  the  current  rushed  furiously  round  the  point.  The 
veteran  hoisted  one  end  of  the  lumbering  sea  chest  on 
the  gunwale  of  the  boat,  and  seized  the  handle  at  the 
other  end  to  lift  it  in,  when  the  motion  propelled  the 
boat  from  the  shore;  the  chest  slipped  ofi^  from  the 
gunwale,  and,  sinking  into  the  waves,  pulled  the  veteran 
headlong  after  it.  A  loud  shriek  was  uttered  by  all  on 
shore,  and  a  volley  of  execrations  by  those  on  board; 
but  boat  and  man  were  hurried  away  by  the  rushing 
swiftness  of  the  tide.  A  pitchy  darkness  succeeded; 
Wolfert  Webber  indeed  fancied  that  he  distinguished 
a  cry  for  help,  and  that  he  beheld  the  drowning  man 
beckoning  for  assistance;  but  when  the  lightning  again 
gleamed  along  the  water,  all  was  void;    neither  man 


Golden  Dreams  259 

nor  boat  was  to  be  seen;  nothing  but  the  dashing  and 
weltering  of  the  waves  as  they  hurried  past. 

The  company  returned  to  the  tavern  to  await  the 
subsiding  of  the  storm.  They  resumed  their  seats,  and 
gazed  on  each  other  with  dismay.  The  whole  transac- 
tion had  not  occupied  five  minutes,  and  not  a  dozen 
words  had  been  spoken.  When  they  looked  at  the 
oaken  chair,  they  could  scarcely  realize  the  fact  that 
the  strange  being  who  had  so  lately  tenanted  it,  full  of 
life  and  Herculean  vigor,  should  already  be  a  corpse. 
There  was  the  very  glass  he  had  just  drunk  from;  there 
lay  the  ashes  from  the  pipe  which  he  had  smoked,  as  it 
were,  with  his  last  breath.  As  the  worthy  burghers 
pondered  on  these  things,  they  felt  a  terrible  convic- 
tion of  the  uncertainty  of  existence,  and  each  felt  as  if 
the  ground  on  which  he  stood  was  rendered  less  stable 
by  this  awful  example. 

As,  however,  the  most  of  the  company  were  possessed 
of  that  valuable  philosophy  which  enables  a  man  to 
bear  up  with  fortitude  against  the  misfortunes  of  his 
neighbors,  they  soon  managed  to  console  themselves 
for  the  tragic  end  of  the  veteran.  The  landlord  was 
particularly  happy  that  the  poor  dear  man  had  paid 
his  reckoning  before  he  went;  and  made  a  kind  of  fare- 
well speech  on  the  occasion. 

"He  came,"  said  he,  "in  a  storm,  and  he  went  in  a 
storm;  he  came  in  the  night,  and  he  went  in  the  night; 
he  came  nobody  knows  whence,  and  he  has  gone  no- 
body knows  where.  For  aught  I  know  he  has  gone  to 
sea  once  more  in  his  chest,,  and  may  land  to  bother 
some   other  people   on   the   other   side   of  the   world! 


26o  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

Though  it's  a  thousand  pities,"  added  he,  "if  he  has 
gone  to  Davy  Jones's  locker,  that  he  had  not  left  his 
own  locker  behind  him." 

"His  locker!  St.  Nicholas  preserve  us!"  cried  Peechy 
Prauw.  "I'd  not  have  that  sea  chest  in  the  house  for 
any  money;  I'll  warrant  he'd  come  racketing  after  it 
at  nights,  and  making  a  haunted  house  of  the  inn.  And, 
as  to  his  going  to  sea  in  his  chest,  I  recollect  what  hap- 
pened to  Skipper  Onderdonk's  ship  on  his  voyage  from 
Amsterdam. 

"The  boatswain  died  during  a  storm.  So  they  wrap- 
ped him  up  in  a  sheet,  and  put  him  in  his  own  sea  chest, 
and  threw  him  overboard;  but  they  neglected  in  their 
hurry-skurry  to  say  prayers  over  him — and  the  storm 
raged  and  roared  louder  than  ever,  and  they  saw  the 
dead  man  seated  in  his  chest,  with  his  shroud  for  a  sail, 
coming  hard  after  the  ship;  and  the  sea  breaking  before 
him  in  great  sprays  like  fire;  and  there  they  kept  scud- 
ding day  after  day,  and  night  after  night,  expecting 
every  moment  to  go  to  wreck;  and  every  night  they 
saw  the  dead  boatswain  in  his  sea  chest  trying  to  get 
up  with  them,  and  they  heard  his  whistle  above  the 
blasts  of  wind,  and  he  seemed  to  send  great  seas  moun- 
tain high  after  them,  that  would  have  swamped  the 
ship  if  they  had  not  put  up  the  deadlights.  And  so  it 
went  on  till  they  lost  sight  of  him  in  the  fogs  off  New- 
foundland, and  supposed  he  had  veered  ship  and  stood 
for  Dead  Man's  Isle.  So  much  for  burying  a  man  at 
sea  without  saying  prayers  over  him." 

The  thundcrgust  which  had  hitherto  detained  the 
company  was  now  at  an  end.    The  cuckoo  clock  in  the 


Golden  Dreams  261 

hall  tolled  midnight;  every  one  pressed  to  depart,  for 
seldom  was  such  a  late  hour  of  the  night  trespassed  on 
by  these  quiet  burghers.  As  they  sallied  forth,  they 
found  the  heavens  once  more  serene.  The  storm  which 
had  lately  obscured  them  had  rolled  away,  and  lay  piled 
up  in  fleecy  masses  on  the  horizon,  lighted  up  by  the 
bright  crescent  of  the  moon,  which  looked  like  a  little 
silver  lamp  hung  up  in  a  palace  of  clouds. 

The  dismal  occurrence  of  the  night,  and  the  dismal 
narrations  they  had  made,  had  left  a  superstitious  feel- 
ing in  every  mind.  They  cast  a  fearful  glance  at  the 
spot  where  the  buccaneer  had  disappeared,  almost 
expecting  to  see  him  sailing  on  his  chest  in  the  cool 
moonshine.  The  trembling  rays  glittered  along  the 
waters,  but  all  was  placid,  and  the  current  dimpled 
over  the  spot  where  he  had  gone  down.  The  party 
huddled  together  in  a  little  crowd  as  they  repaired 
homeward,  particularly  when  they  passed  a  lonely 
field  where  a  man  had  been  murdered,  and  even  the 
sexton,  who  had  to  complete  his  journey  alone,  though 
accustomed,  one  would  think,  to  ghosts  and  goblins, 
went  a  long  way  round,  rather  than  pass  by  his  own 
churchyard. 

Wolfert  Webber  had  now  carried  home  a  fresh  stock 
of  stories  and  notions  to  ruminate  upon.  These  ac- 
counts of  pots  of  money  and  Spanish  treasures,  buried 
here  and  there  and  everywhere,  about  the  rocks  and 
bays  of  these  wild  shores,  made  him  almost  dizzy. 
"Blessed  St.  Nicholas!"  ejaculated  he  half  aloud,  "is 
it  not  possible  to  come  upon  one  of  these  golden  hoards, 
and  to  make  one's  self  rich  in  a  twinkling?    How  hard 


262  Stories  of  the  Hudson 


i 


that  I  must  go  on,  delving  and  delving,  day  in  and  day 
out,  merely  to  make  a  morsel  of  bread,  when  one  lucky 
stroke  of  a  spade  might  enable  me  to  ride  in  my  car- 
riage for  the  rest  of  my  life?" 

As  he  turned  over  in  his  thoughts  all  that  had  been 
told  of  the  singular  adventure  of  the  negro  fisherman, 
his  imagination  gave  a  totally  different  complexion  to 
the  tale.  He  saw  in  the  gang  of  red-caps  nothing  but 
a  crew  of  pirates  burying  their  spoils,  and  his  cupidity 
was  once  more  awakened  by  the  possibility  of  at  length 
getting  on  the  traces  of  some  of  this  lurking  wealth. 
Indeed,  his  infected  fancy  tinged  everything  with  gold. 
He  felt  like  the  greedy  inhabitant  of  Bagdad,  when  his 
eyes  had  been  greased  with  the  magic  ointment  of  the 
dervish,  that  gave  him  to  see  all  the  treasures  of  the 
earth.  Caskets  of  buried  jewels,  chests  of  ingots,  and 
barrels  of  outlandish  coins,  seemed  to  court  him  from 
their  concealments,  and  supplicate  him  to  relieve  them 
from  their  untimely  graves. 

On  making  private  inquiries  about  the  grounds  said 
to  be  haunted  by  Father  Red-cap,  he  was  more  and 
more  confirmed  in  his  surmise.  He  learned  that  the 
place  had  several  times  been  visited  by  experienced 
money-diggers,  who  had  heard  Black  Sam's  story, 
though  none  of  them  had  met  with  success.  On  the 
contrary,  they  had  always  been  dogged  with  ill-luck 
of  some  kind  or  other,  in  consequence,  as  Wolfert  con- 
cluded, of  not  going  to  work  at  the  proper  time,  and 
with  the  proper  ceremonials.  The  last  attempt  had 
been  made  by  Cobus  Quackenbos,  who  dug  for  a  whole 
night,  and  met  with  incredible  difficulty,  for  as  fast  as 


Golden  Dreams  263 

he  threw  one  shovel  full  of  earth  out  of  the  hole,  two 
were  thrown  in  by  Invisible  hands.  He  succeeded  so 
far,  however,  as  to  uncover  an  iron  chest,  when  there 
was  a  terrible  roaring,  ramping,  and  raging  of  uncouth 
figures  about  the  hole,  and  at  length  showers  of  blows, 
dealt  by  invisible  cudgels,  fairly  belabored  him  off  of 
the  forbidden  ground.  This  Cobus  Quackenbos  had 
declared  on  his  death-bed,  so  that  there  could  not  be 
any  doubt  of  it.  He  was  a  man  that  had  devoted  many 
years  of  his  life  to  money-digging,  and  it  was  thought 
would  have  ultimately  succeeded,  had  he  not  died 
recently  of  a  brain  fever  in  the  almshouse. 

Wolfert  Webber  was  now  in  a  worry  of  trepidation 
and  impatience,  fearful  lest  some  rival  adventurer 
should  get  a  scent  of  the  buried  gold.  He  determined 
privately  to  seek  out  the  black  fisherman,  and  get  him 
to  serve  as  guide  to  the  place  where  he  had  witnessed 
the  mysterious  scene  of  interment.  Sam  was  easily 
found,  for  he  was  one  of  those  old  habitual  beings  that 
live  about  a  neighborhood  until  they  wear  themselves 
a  place  In  the  public  mind,  and  become,  in  a  manner, 
public  characters.  There  was  not  an  unlucky  urchin 
about  town  that  did  not  know  Sam  the  fisherman,  and 
think  that  he  had  a  right  to  play  his  tricks  upon  the  old 
negro.  Sam  had  led  an  amphibious  life  for  more  than 
half  a  century,  about  the  shores  of  the  Bay,  and  the 
fishing  grounds  of  the  Sound.  He  passed  the  greater 
part  of  his  time  on  and  in  the  water,  particularly  about 
Hell  Gate,  and  might  have  been  taken.  In  bad  weather, 
for  one  of  the  hobgoblins  that  used  to  haunt  that  strait. 
There  would  he  be  seen,  at  all  times,  and  In  all  weathers, 


264  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

sometimes  in  his  skiff,  anchored  among  the  eddies,  or 
prowHng  like  a  shark  about  some  wreck,  where  the  fish 
are  supposed  to  be  most  abundant.  Sometimes  seated 
on  a  rock  from  hour  to  hour,  looking  in  the  mist  and 
drizzle  like  a  solitary  heron,  watching  for  its  prey.  He 
was  well  acquainted  with  every  hole  and  corner  of  the 
Sound,  from  the  Wallabout  to  Hell  Gate,  and  from  Hell 
Gate  even  unto  the  Devil's  Stepping-stones,  and  it  was 
even  affirmed  that  he  knew  all  the  fish  in  the  river  by 
their  Christian  names. 

Wolfert  found  him  at  his  cabin,  which  was  not  much 
larger  than  a  tolerable  dog-house.  It  was  rudely  con- 
structed of  fragments  of  wrecks  and  driftwood,  and 
built  on  the  rocky  shore  at  the  foot  of  the  old  fort,  just 
about  what  at  present  forms  the  point  of  the  Battery. 
A  "most  ancient  and  fish-like  smell"  pervaded  the 
place.  Oars,  paddles,  and  fishing-rods  were  leaning 
against  the  wall  of  the  fort;  a  net  was  spread  on  the 
sands  to  dry;  a  skiff  was  drawn  up  on  the  beach,  and 
at  the  door  of  his  cabin  was  Mud  Sam  himself,  indulg- 
ing in  the  true  negro  luxury  of  sleeping  in  the  sunshine. 

Many  years  had  passed  away  since  the  time  of  Sam's 
youthful  adventure,  and  the  snows  of  many  a  winter 
had  grizzled  the  knotty  wool  upon  his  head.  He  per- 
fectly recollected  the  circumstances,  however,  for  he 
had  often  been  called  upon  to  relate  them,  though  in 
his  version  of  the  story  he  differed  in  many  points  from 
Peechy  Prauw,  as  is  not  unfrequently  the  case  with 
authentic  historians.  As  to  the  subsequent  researches 
of  money-diggers,  Sam  knew  nothing  about  them; 
they  were  matters  quite  out  of  his  line;  neither  did  the 


Golden  Dreams  265 

cautious  Wolfert  care  to  disturb  his  thoughts  on  that 
point.  His  only  wish  was  to  secure  the  old  fisherman  as 
a  pilot  to  the  spot,  and  this  was  readily  effected.  The 
long  time  that  had  intervened  since  his  nocturnal  ad- 
venture had  effaced  all  Sam's  awe  of  the  place,  and  the 
promise  of  a  trifling  reward  roused  him  at  once  from 
his  sleep  and  his  sunshine. 

The  tide  was  adverse  to  making  the  expedition  by 
water,  and  Wolfert  was  too  impatient  to  get  to  the  land 
of  promise,  to  wait  for  its  turning;  they  set  off,  there- 
fore, by  land.  A  walk  of  four  or  five  miles  brought 
them  to  the  edge  of  a  wood,  which,  at  that  time,  covered 
the  greater  part  of  the  eastern  side  of  the  island.  It 
was  just  beyond  the  pleasant  region  of  Bloomen-dael. 
Here  they  struck  into  a  long  lane,  straggling  among 
trees  and  bushes,  very  much  overgrown  with  weeds 
and  mullein-stalks,  as  if  but  seldom  used,  and  so  com- 
pletely overshadowed  as  to  enjoy  but  a  kind  of  twi- 
light. Wild  vines  entangled  the  trees,  and  flaunted  in 
their  faces;  brambles  and  briers  caught  their  clothes 
as  they  passed;  the  garter  snake  glided  across  their 
path;  the  spotted  toad  hopped  and  waddled  before 
them,  and  the  restless  catbird  mewed  at  them  from 
every  thicket.  Had  Wolfert  Webber  been  deeply  read 
in  romantic  legend,  he  might  have  fancied  himself  en- 
tering upon  forbidden,  enchanted  ground,  or  that  these 
were  some  of  the  guardians  set  to  keep  watch  upon 
buried  treasure.  As  it  was,  the  loneliness  of  the  place, 
and  the  wild  stories  connected  with  it,  had  their  effect 
upon  his   mind. 

On  reaching  the  lower  end  of  the  lane,  they  found 


266  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

themselves  near  the  shore  of  the  Sound  in  a  kind  of 
amphitheatre,  surrounded  by  forest  trees.  The  area 
had  once  been  a  grassplot,  but  was  now  shagged  with 
briers  and  rank  weeds.  At  one  end,  and  just  on  the 
river  bank,  was  a  ruined  building,  little  better  than 
a  heap  of  rubbish,  with  a  stack  of  chimneys,  rising  like 
a  solitary  tower  out  of  the  centre.  The  current  of  the 
Sound  rushed  along  just  below  it,  with  wildly-grown 
trees  drooping  their  branches  into  its  waves. 

Wolfert  had  not  a  doubt  that  this  was  the  haunted 
house  of  Father  Red-cap,  and  called  to  mind  the  story 
of  Peechy  Prauw.  The  evening  was  approaching,  and 
the  light  falling  dubiously  among  these  woody  places, 
gave  a  melancholy  tone  to  the  scene,  well  calculated  to 
foster  any  lurking  feeling  of  awe  or  superstition.  The 
nighthawk,  wheeling  about  in  the  highest  regions  of 
the  air,  emitted  his  peevish,  boding  cry.  The  wood- 
pecker gave  a  lonely  tap  now  and  then  on  some  hollow 
tree,  and  the  firebird*  streamed  by  them  with  his  deep- 
red  plumage. 

They  now  came  to  an  inclosurc  that  had  once  been 
a  garden.  It  extended  along  the  foot  of  a  rocky  ridge, 
but  was  little  better  than  a  wilderness  of  weeds,  with 
here  and  there  a  matted  rosebush,  or  a  peach  or  plum 
tree  grown  wild  and  ragged,  and  covered  with  moss. 
At  the  lower  end  of  the  garden  they  passed  a  kind  of 
vault  in  the  side  of  a  bank,  facing  the  water.  It  had 
the  look  of  a  root-house.  The  door,  though  decayed, 
was  still  strong,  and  appeared  to  have  been  recently 
patched  up.     Wolfert  pushed  it  open.     It  gave  a  harsh 

*Orchard  Oriole. 


Golden  Dreams  267 

grating  upon  Its  hinges,  and  striking  against  something 
like  a  box,  a  rattling  sound  ensued,  and  a  skull  rolled 
on  the  floor.  Wolfert  drew  back  shuddering,  but  was 
reassured  on  being  Informed  by  the  negro  that  this  was 
a  family  vault,  belonging  to  one  of  the  old  Dutch  fam- 
ilies that  owned  this  estate;  an  assertion  corroborated 
by  the  sight  of  cofhns  of  various  sizes  piled  within. 
Sam  had  been  familiar  with  all  these  scenes  when  a 
boy,  and  now  knew  that  he  could  not  be  far  from  the 
place  of  which  they  were  in  quest. 

They  now  made  their  way  to  the  water's  edge,  scram- 
bling along  ledges  of  rocks  that  overhung  the  waves, 
and  obliged  often  to  hold  by  shrubs  and  grapevines  to 
avoid  slipping  Into  the  deep  and  hurried  stream.  At 
length  they  came  to  a  small  cove,  or  rather  Indent  of 
the  shore.  It  was  protected  by  steep  rocks,  and  over- 
shadowed by  a  thick  copse  of  oaks  and  chestnuts,  so  as 
to  be  sheltered  and  almost  concealed.  The  beach 
shelved  gradually  within  the  cove,  but  the  current 
swept  deep  and  black  and  rapid  along  its  jutting  points. 
The  negro  paused;  raised  his  remnant  of  a  hat,  and 
scratched  his  grizzled  poll  for  a  moment,  as  he  regarded 
this  nook;  then  suddenly  clapping  his  hands,  he  stepped 
exultingly  forward,  and  pointed  to  a  large  Iron  ring, 
stapled  firmly  In  the  rock,  just  where  a  broad  shelf  of 
stone  furnished  a  commodious  landing  place.  It  was 
the  very  spot  where  the  red-caps  had  landed.  Years 
had  changed  the  more  perishable  features  of  the  scene; 
but  rock  and  Iron  yield  slowly  to  the  influence  of  time. 
On  looking  more  closely,  Wolfert  remarked  three  crosses 
cut  in  the  rock  just  above  the  ring,  which  had  no  doubt 


268  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

some  mysterious  signification.  Old  Sam  now  readily- 
recognized  the  overhanging  rock  under  which  his  skiff 
had  been  sheltered  during  the  thundergust.  To  follow 
up  the  course  which  the  midnight  gang  had  taken, 
however,  was  a  harder  task.  His  mind  had  been  so 
much  taken  up  on  that  eventful  occasion  by  the  per- 
sons of  the  drama,  as  to  pay  but  little  attention  to  the 
scenes;  and  these  places  look  so  different  by  night  and 
day.  After  wandering  about  for  some  time,  however, 
they  came  to  an  opening  among  the  trees  which  Sam 
thought  resembled  the  place.  There  was  a  ledge  of 
rock  of  moderate  height  like  a  wall  on  one  side,  which 
he  thought  might  be  the  very  ridge  whence  he  had  over- 
looked the  diggers.  Wolfert  examined  it  narrowly,  and 
at  length  discovered  three  crosses  similar  to  those  above 
the  iron  ring,  cut  deeply  into  the  face  of  the  rock,  but 
nearly  obliterated  by  moss  that  had  grown  over  them. 
His  heart  leaped  with  joy,  for  he  doubted  not  they  were 
the  private  marks  of  the  buccaneers.  All  now  that 
remained  was  to  ascertain  the  precise  spot  where  the 
treasure  lay  buried;  for  otherwise  he  might  dig  at 
random  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  crosses,  without 
coming  upon  the  spoils,  and  he  had  already  had  enough 
of  such  profitless  labor.  Here,  however,  the  old  negro 
was  perfectly  at  a  loss,  and  indeed  perplexed  him  by  a 
variety  of  opinions;  for  his  recollections  were  all  con- 
fused. Sometimes  he  declared  it  must  have  been  at  the 
foot  of  a  mulberry  tree  hard  by;  then  beside  a  great 
white  stone;  then  under  a  small  green  knoll,  a  short 
distance  from  the  ledge  of  rocks;  until  at  length  Wol- 
fert became  as  bewildered  as  himself. 


Golden  Dreams  269 

The  shadows  of  evening  were  now  spreading  them- 
selves over  the  woods,  and  rock  and  tree  began  to  mingle 
together.  It  was  evidently  too  late  to  attempt  anything 
further  at  present;  and,  indeed,  Wolfert  had  come 
unprovided  with  implements  to  prosecute  his  researches. 
Satisfied,  therefore,  with  having  ascertained  the  place, 
he  took  note  of  all  its  landmarks,  that  he  might  recog- 
nise it  again,  and  set  out  on  his  return  homewards, 
resolved  to  prosecute  this  golden  enterprise  without 
delay. 

The  leading  anxiety  which  had  hitherto  absorbed 
every  feeling,  being  now  in  some  measure  appeased, 
fancy  began  to  wander,  and  to  conjure  up  a  thousand 
shapes  and  chimeras  as  he  returned  through  this 
haunted  region.  Pirates  hanging  in  chains  seemed  to 
swing  from  every  tree,  and  he  almost  expected  to  see 
some  Spanish  don,  with  his  throat  cut  from  ear  to  ear, 
rising  slowly  out  of  the  ground,  and  shaking  the  ghost 
of  a  moneybag. 

Their  way  back  lay  through  the  desolate  garden,  and 
Wolfert's  nerves  had  arrived  at  so  sensitive  a  state  that 
the  flitting  of  a  bird,  the  rustling  of  a  leaf,  or  the  falling 
of  a  nut,  was  enough  to  startle  him.  As  they  entered 
the  confines  of  the  garden,  they  caught  sight  of  a  figure 
at  a  distance  advancing  slowly  up  one  of  the  walks,  and 
bending  under  the  weight  of  a  burden.  They  paused 
and  regarded  him  attentively.  He  wore  what  appeared 
to  be  a  woolen  cap,  and  still  more  alarming,  of  a  most 
sanguinary  red. 

The  figure  moved  slowly  on,  ascended  the  bank,  and 
stopped  at  the  very  door  of  the  sepulchral  vault.    Just 


270  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

before  entering  it  he  looked  around.  What  was  the 
affright  of  Wolfert,  when  he  recognised  the  grizzly- 
visage  of  the  drowned  buccaneer!  He  uttered  an  ejacu- 
lation of  horror.  The  figure  slowly  raised  his  iron  fist, 
and  shook  it  with  a  terrible  menace.  Wolfert  did  not 
pause  to  see  any  more,  but  hurried  off  as  fast  as  his  legs 
could  carry  him,  nor  was  Sam  slow  in  following  at  his 
heels,  having  all  his  ancient  terrors  revived.  Away, 
then,  did  they  scramble  through  bush  and  brake, 
horribly  frightened  at  every  bramble  that  tugged  at 
their  skirts,  nor  did  they  pause  to  breathe,  until  they 
had  blundered  their  way  through  this  perilous  wood, 
and  fairly  reached  the  high  road  to  the  city. 

Several  days  elapsed  before  Wolfert  could  summon 
courage  enough  to  prosecute  the  enterprise,  so  much 
had  he  been  dismayed  by  the  apparition,  whether  living 
or  dead,  of  the  grizzly  buccaneer.  In  the  meantime, 
what  a  conflict  of  mind  did  he  suffer!  He  neglected  all 
his  concerns,  was  moody  and  restless  all  day,  lost  his 
appetite,  wandered  in  his  thoughts  and  words,  and 
committed  a  thousand  blunders.  His  rest  was  broken; 
and  when  he  fell  asleep,  the  nightmare,  in  shape  of  a 
huge  moneybag,  sat  squatted  upon  his  breast.  He 
babbled  about  incalculable  sums;  fancied  himself  en- 
gaged in  money-digging;  threw  the  bedclothes  right 
and  left,  in  the  idea  that  he  was  shovelling  away  the 
dirt;  groped  under  the  bed  in  quest  of  the  treasure,  and 
lugged  forth,  as  he  supposed,  an  inestimable  pot  of 
gold. 

Dame  Webber  and  her  daughter  were  in  despair  at 
what  they  conceived   a   returning  touch  of  insanity. 


Golden  Dreams  271 

There  are  two  family  oracles,  one  or  other  of  which 
Dutch  housewives  consult  in  all  cases  of  great  doubt 
and  perplexity — the  dominie  and  the  doctor.  In  the 
present  instance  they  repaired  to  the  doctor.  There 
was  at  that  time  a  little  dark  mouldy  man  of  medicine, 
famous  among  the  old  wives  of  the  Manhattoes  for  his 
skill,  not  only  in  the  healing  art,  but  in  all  matters  of 
strange  and  mysterious  nature.  His  name  was  Dr. 
Knipperhausen,  but  he  was  more  commonly  known  by 
the  appellation  of  the  High  German  Doctor.*  To  him 
did  the  poor  women  repair  for  counsel  and  assistance 
touching  the  mental  vagaries  of  Wolfert  Webber. 

They  found  the  doctor  seated  in  his  little  study,  clad 
in  his  dark  camlet  robe  of  knowledge,  with  his  black 
velvet  cap,  after  the  manner  of  Boorhaave,  Van  Hel- 
mont,  and  other  medical  sages;  a  pair  of  green  specta- 
cles set  in  black  horn  upon  his  clubbed  nose,  and  poring 
over  a  German  folio  that  reflected  back  the  darkness  of 
his  physiognomy.  The  doctor  listened  to  their  state- 
ment of  the  symptoms  of  Wolfert's  malady  with  pro- 
found attention;  but  when  they  came  to  mention  his 
raving  about  buried  money,  the  little  man  pricked  up 
his  ears.  Alas,  poor  women!  they  little  knew  the  aid 
they  had  called  in. 

Dr.  Knipperhausen  had  been  half  his  life  engaged  in 
seeking  the  short  cuts  to  fortune,  in  quest  of  which  so 
many  a  long  lifetime  is  wasted.  He  had  passed  some 
years  of  his  youth  among  the  Harz  Mountains  of  Ger- 
many, and  had  derived  much  valuable  instruction  from 

*  The  same,  no  doubt,  of  whom  mention  is  made  in  the  history 
of  Dolph  Heyliger. 


272  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

the  miners,  touching  the  mode  of  seeking  treasure  buried 
in  the  earth.  He  had  prosecuted  his  studies  also  under 
a  travelling  sage  who  united  the  mysteries  of  medicine 
with  magic  and  legerdemain.  His  mind  therefore  had 
become  stored  with  all  kinds  of  mystic  lore;  he  had 
dabbled  a  little  in  astrology,  alchemy,  divination; 
knew  how  to  detect  stolen  money,  and  to  tell  where 
springs  of  water  lay  hidden;  in  a  word,  by  the  dark 
nature  of  his  knowledge  he  had  acquired  the  name  of 
the  High  German  Doctor,  which  is  pretty  nearly  equiva- 
lent to  that  of  necromancer.  The  doctor  had  often 
heard  rumors  of  treasure  being  buried  in  various  parts 
of  the  island,  and  had  long  been  anxious  to  get  on  the 
traces  of  it.  No  sooner  were  Wolfert's  waking  and 
sleeping  vagaries  confided  to  him,  than  he  beheld  in 
them  the  confirmed  symptoms  of  a  case  of  money- 
digging,  and  lost  no  time  in  probing  it  to  the  bottom. 
Wolfert  had  long  been  sorely  oppressed  in  mind  by  the 
golden  secret,  and  as  a  family  physician  is  a  kind  of 
father  confessor,  he  was  glad  of  any  opportunity  of 
unburdening  himself.  So,  far  from  curing,  the  doctor 
caught  the  malady  from  his  patient.  The  circumstances 
unfolded  to  him  awakened  all  his  cupidity;  he  had  not 
a  doubt  of  money  being  buried  somewhere  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  mysterious  crosses,  and  offered  to  join 
Wolfert  in  the  search.  He  informed  him  that  much 
secrecy  and  caution  must  be  observed  in  enterprises  of 
the  kind;  that  money  is  only  to  be  digged  for  at  night; 
with  certain  forms  and  ceremonies;  the  burning  of 
drugs;  the  repeating  of  mystic  words;  and  above  all, 
that  the  seekers  must  first  be  provided  with  a  divining 


Golden  Dreams  273 

rod,  which  had  the  wonderful  property  of  pointing  to 
the  very  spot  on  the  surface  of  the  earth  under  which 
treasure  lay  hidden.  As  the  doctor  had  given  much 
of  his  mind  to  these  matters,  he  charged  himself  with 
all  the  necessary  preparations,  and,  as  the  quarter  of 
the  moon  was  propitious,  he  undertook  to  have  the 
divining  rod  ready  by  a  certain  night.* 

Wolfert's  heart  leaped  with  joy  at  having  met  with 
so  learned  and  able  a  coadjutor.  Everything  went  on 
secretly,  but  swimmingly.  The  doctor  had  many  con- 
sultations with  his  patient,  and  the  good  woman  of  the 
household  lauded  the  comforting  eifects  of  his  visits. 
In  the  meantime  the  wonderful  divining  rod,  that  great 
key  to  nature's  secrets,  was  duly  prepared.  The  doctor 
had  thumbed  over  all  his  books  of  knowledge  for  the 
occasion;  and  the  black  fisherman  was  engaged  to  take 
them  in  his  skiff  to  the  scene  of  enterprise;  to  work 
with  spade  and  pickaxe  in  unearthing  the  treasure; 
and  to  freight  his  bark  with  the  weighty  spoils  they 
were  certain  of  finding. 

At  length  the  appointed  night  arrived  for  this  perilous 
undertaking.  Before  Wolfert  left  his  home  he  coun- 
selled his  wife  and  daughter  to  go  to  bed,  and  feel  no 

*The  following  note  was  found  appended  to  this  passage  in  the 
handwriting  of  Mr.  Knickerbocker.  "There  has  been  much  written 
against  the  divining  rod  by  those  light  minds  who  are  ever  ready 
to  scoff  at  the  mysteries  of  nature;  but  I  fully  join  with  Dr.  Knip- 
perhausen  in  giving  it  my  faith.  I  shall  not  insist  upon  its  efficacy 
in  discovering  the  concealment  of  stolen  goods,  the  boundary  stones 
of  fields,  the  traces  of  robbers  and  murderers,  or  even  the  existence 
of  subterraneous  springs  and  streams  of  water:  albeit,  I  think  these 
properties  not  to  be  readily  discredited:  but  of  its  potency  in  dis- 
covering veins  of  precious  metal,  and  hidden  sums  of  money  and 


274  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

alarm  if  he  should  not  return  during  the  night.  Like 
reasonable  women,  on  being  told  not  to  feel  alarm,  they 
fell  immediately  into  a  panic.  They  saw  at  once  by 
his  manner  that  something  unusual  was  in  agitation; 
all  their  fears  about  the  unsettled  state  of  his  mind  were 
revived  with  tenfold  force;  they  hung  about  him,  en- 
treating him  not  to  expose  himself  to  the  night  air,  but 
all  in  vain.  When  once  Wolfert  was  mounted  on  his 
hobby,  it  was  no  easy  matter  to  get  him  out  of  the  sad- 
dle. It  was  a  clear  starlight  night,  when  he  issued  out 
of  the  portal  of  the  Webber  palace.  He  wore  a  large 
flapped  hat  tied  under  the  chin  with  a  handkerchief  of 
his  daughter's,  to  secure  him  from  the  night  damp, 
while  Dame  Webber  threw  her  long  red  cloak  about 
his  shoulders,  and  fastened  it  round  his  neck. 

The  doctor  had  been  no  less  carefully  armed  and 
accoutred  by  his  housekeeper,  the  vigilant  Frau  Ilsy, 
and  sallied  forth  in  his  camlet  robe,  by  way  of  surcoat; 
his  black  velvet  cap  under  his  cocked  hat,  a  thick 
clasped  book  under  his  arm,  a  basket  of  drugs  and  dried 
herbs  in  one  hand,  and  in  the  other  the  miraculous  rod 
of  divination. 

The  great  church  clock  struck  ten  as  Wolfert  and  the 
doctor  passed  by  the  churchyard,    and  the  watchman 


jewels,  I  have  not  the  least  doubt.  Some  said  that  the  rod  turned 
only  in  the  hands  of  persons  who  had  been  born  in  particular  months 
of  the  year;  hence  astrologers  had  recourse  to  planetary  influence 
when  they  would  procure  a  talisman.  Others  declared  that  the 
properties  of  the  rod  were  either  an  effect  of  chance,  or  the  fraud  of 
the  holder,  or  the  work  of  the  devil. 

But  I  make  not  a  doubt  that  the  divining  rod  is  one  of  those 
secrets  of  natural  magic,  the  mystery  of  which  is  to  be  explained  by 


Golden  Dreams  275 

bawled  In  hoarse  voice  a  long  and  doleful  "All's  well!" 
A  deep  sleep  had  already  fallen  upon  this  primitive 
little  burgh;  nothing  disturbed  this  awful  silence,  ex- 
cepting now  and  then  the  bark  of  some  profligate  night- 
walking  dog,  or  the  serenade  of  some  romantic  cat.  It 
is  true,  Wolfert  fancied  more  than  once  that  he  heard 
the  sound  of  a  stealthy  footfall  at  a  distance  behind 
them:  but  it  might  have  been  merely  the  echo  of  their 
own  steps  along  the  quiet  streets.  He  thought  also  at 
one  time  that  he  saw  a  tall  figure  skulking  after  them 
— stopping  when  they  stopped,  and  moving  on  as  they 
proceeded ;  but  the  dim  and  uncertain  lamplight 
threw  such  vague  gleams  and  shadows,  that  this  might 
all  have  been  mere  fancy. 

They  found  the  old  fisherman  waiting  for  them, 
smoking  his  pipe  in  the  stern  of  his  skiff,  which  was 
moored  just  in  front  of  his  little  cabin.  A  pickaxe  and 
spade  were  lying  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  with  a  dark 
lantern,  and  a  stone  bottle  of  good  Dutch  courage,  in 
which  honest  Sam  no  doubt  put  even  more  faith  than 
Dr.  Knipperhausen  in  his  drugs. 

Thus  then  did  these  three  worthies  embark  in  their 
cockleshell  of  a  skiff  upon  this  nocturnal  expedition, 
with  a  wisdom  and  valor  equalled  only  by  the  three 

the  sympathies  existing  between  physical  things  operated  upon  by 
the  planets,  and  rendered  efficacious  by  the  strong  faith  of  the  in- 
dividual. Let  the  divining  rod  be  properly  gathered  at  the  proper 
time  of  the  moon,  cut  into  the  proper  form,  used  with  the  necessary 
ceremonies,  and  with  a  perfect  faith  in  its  efficacy,  and  I  can  con- 
fidently recommend  it  to  my  fellow-citizens  as  an  infallible  means 
of  discovering  the  various  places  on  the  Island  of  Manhattoes  where 
treasure  hath  been  buried  in  the  olden  time,  t\    -v  tt 


276  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

wise  men  of  Gotham,  who  adventured  to  sea  In  a  bowl. 
The  tide  was  rising  and  running  rapidly  up  the  Sound. 
The  current  bore  them  along,  almost  without  the  aid 
of  an  oar.  The  profile  of  the  town  lay  all  In  shadow. 
Here  and  there  a  light  feebly  glimmered  from  some  sick 
chamber,  or  from  a  cabin  window  of  some  vessel  at 
anchor  in  the  stream.  Not  a  cloud  obscured  the  deep 
starry  firmament,  the  lights  of  which  wavered  on  the 
surface  of  the  placid  river;  and  a  shooting  meteor, 
streaking  its  pale  course  In  the  very  direction  they  were 
taking,  was  interpreted  by  the  doctor  into  a  most  pro- 
pitious omen. 

In  a  little  while  they  glided  by  the  point  of  Corlaer's 
Hook  with  the  rural  inn  which  had  been  the  scene  of 
such  night  adventures.  The  family  had  retired  to  rest, 
and  the  house  was  dark  and  still.  Wolfert  felt  a  chill 
pass  over  him  as  they  passed  the  point  where  the  buc- 
caneer had  disappeared.  He  pointed  it  out  to  Dr. 
Knipperhausen.  While  regarding  it,  they  thought  they 
saw  a  boat  actually  lurking  at  the  very  place;  but  the 
shore  cast  such  a  shadow  over  the  border  of  the  water 
that  they  could  discern  nothing  distinctly.  They  had 
not  proceeded  far  when  they  heard  the  low  sounds  of 
distant  oars,  as  if  cautiously  pulled.  Sam  plied  his 
oars  with  redoubled  vigor,  and  knowing  all  the  eddies 
and  currents  of  the  stream,  soon  left  their  followers, 
if  such  they  were,  far  astern.  In  a  little  while  they 
stretched  across  Turtle  Bay  and  Kip's  Bay,  then 
shrouded  themselves  in  the  deep  shadows  of  the  Man- 
hattan shore,  and  glided  swiftly  along,  secure  from 
observation.    At  length  the  negro  shot  his  skiff  into  a 


Golden  Dreams  277 

little  cove,  darkly  embowered  by  trees,  and  made  it 
fast  to  the  well-known  iron  ring.  They  now  landed, 
and  lighting  the  lantern,  gathered  their  various  imple- 
ments and  proceeded  slowly  through  the  bushes.  Every 
sound  startled  them,  even  that  of  their  own  footsteps 
among  the  dry  leaves;  and  the  hooting  of  a  screech 
owl,  from  the  shattered  chimney  of  the  neighboring  ruin, 
made  their  blood  run  cold. 

In  spite  of  all  Wolfert's  caution  in  taking  note  of  the 
landmarks,  it  was  some  time  before  they  could  find 
the  open  place  among  the  trees,  where  the  treasure 
was  supposed  to  be  buried.  At  length  they  came 
to  the  ledge  of  rock;  and  on  examining  its  surface 
by  the  aid  of  the  lantern,  Wolfert  recognized  the 
three  mystic  crosses.  Their  hearts  beat  quick,  for  the 
momentous  trial  was  at  hand  that  was  to  determine 
their  hopes. 

The  lantern  was  now  held  by  Wolfert  Webber,  while 
the  doctor  produced  the  divining  rod.  It  was  a  forked 
twig,  one  end  of  which  was  grasped  firmly  in  each  hand, 
while  the  centre,  forming  the  stem,  pointed  perpendicu- 
larly upwards.  The  doctor  moved  this  wand  about, 
within  a  certain  distance  of  the  earth,  from  place  to 
place,  but  for  some  time  without  any  effect,  while 
Wolfert  kept  the  light  of  the  lantern  turned  full  upon 
it,  and  watched  it  with  the  most  breathless  interest. 
At  length  the  rod  began  slowly  to  turn.  The  doctor 
grasped  it  with  greater  earnestness,  his  hands  trembling 
with  the  agitation  of  his  mind.  The  wand  continued 
to  turn  gradually,  until  at  length  the  stem  had  reversed 
its  position,  and  pointed  perpendicularly  downwards, 


278  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

and  remained  pointing  to  one  spot  as  fixedly  as  the 
needle  to  the  pole. 

"This  is  the  spot!"   said  the  doctor,  in  an  almost 
inaudible  tone. 

Wolfert's  heart  was  in  his  throat. 

"Shall  I  dig?"  said  the  negro,  grasping  the  spade. 

''^ Pots  tausends,  no!"  replied  the  little  doctor,  hastily. 
He  now  ordered  his  companions  to  keep  close  by  him, 
and  to  maintain  the  most  inflexible  silence;  cer- 
tain precautions  must  be  taken  and  ceremonies  used  to 
prevent  the  evil  spirits  which  kept  about  buried  treas- 
ure from  doing  them  any  harm.  He  then  drew  a  circle 
about  the  place,  enough  to  include  the  whole  party. 
He  next  gathered  dry  twigs  and  leaves  and  made  a  fire, 
upon  which  he  threw  certain  drugs  and  dried  herbs 
which  he  had  brought  in  his  basket.  A  thick  smoke 
rose,  diffusing  a  potent  odor,  savoring  marvellously  of 
brimstone  and  asafoetida,  which,  however  grateful  it 
might  be  to  the  olfactory  nerves  of  spirits,  nearly 
strangled  poor  VVolfert,  and  produced  a  fit  of  coughing 
and  wheezing  that  made  the  whole  grove  resound. 
Doctor  Knipperhausen  then  unclasped  the  volume 
which  he  had  brought  under  his  arm,  which  was 
printed  in  red  and  black  characters  in  German  text. 
While  Wolfert  held  the  lantern,  the  doctor,  by  the 
aid  of  his  spectacles,  read  off  several  forms  of  con- 
juration in  Latin  and  German.  He  then  ordered  Sam 
to  seize  the  pickaxe  and  proceed  to  work.  The  close- 
bound  soil  gave  obstinate  signs  of  not  having  been 
disturbed  for  many  a  year.  After  having  picked  his 
way  through  the  surface,  Sam  came  to  a  bed  of  sand 


Golden  Dreams  279 

and  gravel,  which  he  threw  briskly  to  right  and  left 
with  the  spade. 

"Hark!"  said  Wolfert,  who  fancied  he  heard  a  tramp- 
ling among  the  dry  leaves,  and  rustling  through  the 
bushes.  Sam  paused  for  a  moment,  and  they  listened. 
No  footstep  was  near.  The  bat  flitted  by  them  in 
silence;  a  bird,  roused  from  its  roost  by  the  light  which 
glared  up  among  the  trees,  flew  circling  about  the  flame. 
In  the  profound  stillness  of  the  woodland,  they  could 
distinguish  the  current  rippling  along  the  rocky  shore, 
and  the  distant  murmuring  and  roaring  of  Hell  Gate. 

The  negro  continued  his  labors,  and  had  already 
digged  a  considerable  hole.  The  doctor  stood  on  the 
edge,  reading  formulae  every  now  and  then  from  his 
black-letter  volume,  or  throwing  more  drugs  and  herbs 
upon  the  fire;  while  Wolfert  bent  anxiously  over  the 
pit,  watching  every  stroke  of  the  spade.  Anyone  wit- 
nessing the  scene  thus  lighted  up  by  fire,  lantern,  and 
the  reflection  of  Wolfert's  red  mantle,  might  have  mis- 
taken the  little  doctor  for  some  foul  magician  busied  in 
his  incantations,  and  the  grizzly-headed  negro  for  some 
swart  goblin,  obedient  to  his  commands. 

At  length  the  spade  of  the  fisherman  struck  upon 
something  that  sounded  hollow.  The  sound  vibrated 
to  Wolfert's  heart.     He  struck  his  spade  again. 

'"Tis  a  chest,"  said  Sam. 

"Full  of  gold,  I'll  warrant  it!"  cried  Wolfert,  clasp- 
ing his  hands  with  rapture. 

Scarcely  had  he  uttered  the  words  when  a  sound  from 
above  caught  his  ear.  He  cast  up  his  eyes,  and  lo!  by 
the  expiring  light  of  the  fire  he  beheld,  just  over  the 


28o  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

disk  of  the  rock,  what  appeared  to  be  the  grim  visage  of 
the  drowned  buccaneer,  grinning  hideously  down  upon 
him. 

Wolfert  gave  a  loud  cry,  and  let  fall  the  lantern.  His 
panic  communicated  itself  to  his  companions.  The 
negro  leaped  out  of  the  hole;  the  doctor  dropped  his 
book  and  basket,  and  began  to  pray  in  German.  All 
was  horror  and  confusion.  The  fire  was  scattered  about, 
the  lantern  extinguished.  In  their  hurry-scurry  they 
ran  against  and  confounded  one  another.  They  fancied 
a  legion  of  hobgoblins  let  loose  upon  them,  and  that 
they  saw,  by  the  fitful  gleams  of  the  scattered  embers, 
strange  figures,  in  red  caps,  gibbering  and  ramping 
around  them.  The  doctor  ran  one  way,  the  negro  an- 
other, and  Wolfert  made  for  the  waterside.  As  he 
plunged  struggling  onwards  through  brush  and  brake, 
he  heard  the  tread  of  some  one  in  pursuit.  He  scram- 
bled frantically  forward.  The  footsteps  gained  upon 
him.  He  felt  himself  grasped  by  his  cloak,  when  sud- 
denly his  pursuer  was  attacked  in  turn:  a  fierce  fight 
and  struggle  ensued — a  pistol  was  discharged  that  lit 
up  rock  and  bush  for  a  second,  and  showed  two  figures 
grappling  together — all  was  then  darker  than  ever. 
The  contest  continued — the  combatants  clinched  each 
other,  and  panted,  and  groaned,  and  rolled  among  the 
rocks.  There  was  snarling  and  growling  as  of  a  cur, 
mingled  with  curses,  in  which  Wolfert  fancied  he  could 
recognize  the  voice  of  the  buccaneer.  He  would  fain 
have  fled,  but  he  was  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  and 
could  go  no  farther. 

Again  the  parties  were  on  their  feet;   again  there  was 


Golden  Dreams  281 

a  tugging  and  struggling,  as  if  strength  alone  could  de- 
cide the  combat,  until  one  was  precipitated  from  the 
brow  of  the  cliff,  and  sent  headlong  into  the  deep  stream 
that  whirled  below.  Wolfert  heard  the  plunge,  and  a 
kind  of  strangling,  bubbling  murmur,  but  the  darkness 
of  the  night  hid  everything  from  him,  and  the  swiftness 
of  the  current  swept  everything  instantly  out  of  hear- 
ing. One  of  the  combatants  was  disposed  of,  but 
whether  friend  or  foe,  Wolfert  could  not  tell,  nor 
whether  they  might  not  both  be  foes.  He  heard  the 
survivor  approach,  and  his  terror  revived.  He  saw, 
where  the  profile  of  the  rocks  rose  against  the  horizon, 
a  human  form  advancing.  He  could  not  be  mistaken; 
it  must  be  the  buccaneer.  Whither  should  he  fly! — a 
precipice  was  on  one  side — a  murderer  on  the  other. 
The  enemy  approached — he  was  close  at  hand.  Wolfert 
attempted  to  let  himself  down  the  face  of  the  cliff.  His 
cloak  caught  in  a  thorn  that  grew  on  the  edge.  He  was 
jerked  from  off  his  feet,  and  held  dangling  In  the  air, 
half  choked  by  the  string  with  which  his  careful  wife 
had  fastened  the  garment  round  his  neck.  Wolfert 
thought  his  last  moment  was  arrived;  already  had  he 
committed  his  soul  to  St.  Nicholas,  when  the  string 
broke,  and  he  tumbled  down  the  bank,  bumping  from 
rock  to  rock,  and  bush  to  bush,  and  leaving  the  red 
cloak  fluttering  like  a  bloody  banner  In  the  air. 

It  was  a  long  while  before  Wolfert  came  to  himself. 
When  he  opened  his  eyes,  the  ruddy  streaks  of  morning 
were  already  shooting  up  the  sky.  He  found  himself 
grievously  battered,  and  lying  in  the  bottom  of  a  boat. 
He  attempted  to  sit  up,  but  was  too  sore  and  stiff  to 


282  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

move.  A  voice  requested  him  in  friendly  accents  to  lie 
still.  He  turned  his  eyes  towards  the  speaker;  it  was 
Dirk  Waldron.  He  had  dogged  the  party,  at  the  earnest 
request  of  Dame  Webber  and  her  daughter,  who,  with 
the  laudable  curiosity  of  their  sex,  had  pried  into  the 
secret  consultations  of  Wolfert  and  the  doctor.  Dirk 
had  been  completely  distanced  in  following  the  light 
skiflF  of  the  fisherman,  and  had  just  come  in  time  to 
rescue  the  poor  money-digger  from  his  pursuer. 

Thus  ended  this  perilous  enterprise.  The  doctor  and 
Black  Sam  severally  found  their  way  back  to  the  Man- 
hattoes,  each  having  some  dreadful  tale  of  peril  to  relate. 
As  to  poor  Wolfert,  instead  of  returnng  in  triumph  laden 
with  bags  of  gold,  he  was  borne  home  on  a  shutter,  fol- 
lowed by  a  rabble  rout  of  curious  urchins.  His  wife  and 
daughter  saw  the  dismal  pageant  from  a  distance,  and 
alarmed  the  neighborhood  with  their  cries;  they 
thought  the  poor  man  had  suddenly  settled  the  great 
debt  of  nature  in  one  of  his  wayward  moods.  Finding 
him,  however,  still  living,  they  had  him  speedily  to  bed, 
and  a  jury  of  old  matrons  of  the  neighborhood  assem- 
bled, to  determine  how  he  should  be  doctored.  The 
whole  town  was  in  a  buzz  with  the  story  of  the  money- 
diggers.  Many  repaired  to  the  scene  of  the  previous 
night's  adventures;  but  though  they  found  the  very 
place  of  the  digging,  they  discovered  nothing  that  com- 
pensated them  for  their  trouble.  Some  say  they  found 
the  fragments  of  an  oaken  chest,  and  an  iron  pot-lid, 
which  savored  strongly  of  hidden  money,  and  that  in 
the  old  family  vault  there  were  traces  of  bales  and  boxes, 
but  this  is  all  very  dubious. 


Golden  Dreams  283 

In  fact,  the  secret  of  all  this  story  has  never  to  this 
day  been  discovered;  whether  any  treasure  were  ever 
actually  buried  at  that  place;  whether,  if  so,  it  were 
carried  off  at  night  by  those  who  had  buried  it;  or 
whether  it  still  remains  there  under  the  guardianship 
of  gnomes  and  spirits,  until  it  shall  be  properly  sought 
for,  is  all  matter  of  conjecture.  For  my  part,  I  incline 
to  the  latter  opinion,  and  make  no  doubt  that  great 
sums  lie  buried,  both  there  and  in  other  parts  of  this 
island  and  its  neighborhood,  ever  since  the  times  of  the 
buccaneers  and  the  Dutch  colonists,  and  I  would  earn- 
estly recommend  the  search  after  them  to  such  of  my 
fellow  citizens  as  are  not  engaged  in  any  other  specu- 
lations. 

There  were  many  conjectures  formed,  also,  as  to  who 
and  what  was  the  strange  man  of  the  seas  who  had 
domineered  over  the  little  fraternity  at  Corlaer's  Hook 
for  a  time,  disappeared  so  strangely,  and  reappeared  so 
fearfully.  Some  supposed  him  a  smuggler  stationed  at 
that  place  to  assist  his  comrades  in  landing  their  goods 
among  the  rocky  coves  of  the  island.  Others  that  he 
was  one  of  the  ancient  comrades  of  Kidd  or  Bradish, 
returned  to  convey  away  treasures  formerly  hidden  in 
the  vicinity.  The  only  circumstance  that  throws  any- 
thing like  a  vague  light  on  this  mysterious  matter,  is  a 
report  which  prevailed  of  a  strange,  foreign-built  shal- 
lop, with  much  the  look  of  a  picaroon,  having  been  seen 
hovering  about  the  Sound  for  several  days,  without 
landing  or  reporting  herself,  though  boats  were  seen 
going  to  and  from  her  at  night,  and  that  she  was  seen 
standing   out    of   the    mouth   of    the   harbor    in    the 


284  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

grey  of  the  dawn  after  the  catastrophe  of  the  money- 
diggers. 

I  must  not  omit  to  mention  another  report,  also, 
which  I  confess  is  rather  apocryphal,  of  the  buccaneer, 
who  was  supposed  to  have  been  drowned,  being  seen 
before  daybreak,  with  a  lantern  in  his  hand,  seated 
astride  of  his  great  sea  chest,  and  sailing  through  Hell 
Gate,  which  just  then  began  to  roar  and  bellow  with 
redoubled  fury. 

While  all  the  gossip  world  was  thus  filled  with  talk 
and  rumor,  poor  Wolfert  lay  sick  and  sorrowful  in  his 
bed,  bruised  in  body,  and  sorely  beaten  down  in  mind. 
His  wife  and  daughter  did  all  they  could  to  bind  up  his 
wounds,  both  corporal  and  spiritual.  The  good  old 
dame  never  stirred  from  his  bedside,  where  she  sat 
knitting  from  morning  till  night,  while  his  daughter 
busied  herself  about  him  with  the  fondest  care.  Nor 
did  they  lack  assistance  from  abroad.  Whatever  may 
be  said  of  the  desertion  of  friends  in  distress,  they  had 
no  complaint  of  the  kind  to  make.  Not  an  old  wife  of 
the  neighborhood  but  abandoned  her  work  to  crowd  to 
the  mansion  of  Wolfert  Webber,  inquire  after  his 
health,  and  the  particulars  of  his  story.  Not  one  came 
moreover,  without  her  little  pipkin  of  pennyroyal,  sage, 
balm,  or  other  herb  tea,  delighted  at  an  opportunity  of 
signalizing  her  kindness  and  her  doctorship.  Wliat 
drcnchings  did  not  poor  Wolfert  undergo,  and  all  in 
vain!  It  was  a  moving  sight  to  behold  him  wasting 
away  day  by  day,  growing  thinner  and  thinner,  and 
ghastlier  and  ghastlier,  and  staring  with  rueful  visage 
from  under  an  old  patchwork  counterpane,  upon  the 


Golden  Dreams  285 

jury  of  matrons  kindly  assembled  to  sigh,  and  groan, 
and  look  unhappy  around  him. 

Dirk  Waldron  was  the  only  being  that  seemed  to  shed 
a  ray  of  sunshine  into  this  house  of  mourning.  He  came 
in  with  cheery  look  and  manly  spirit,  and  tried  to 
reanimate  the  expiring  heart  of  the  poor  money-digger, 
but  it  was  all  in  vain.  Wolfert  was  completely  done 
over.  If  anything  was  wanting  to  complete  his  despair, 
it  was  a  notice  served  upon  him  in  the  midst  of  his  dis- 
tress, that  the  corporation  were  about  to  run  a  new 
street  through  the  very  centre  of  his  cabbage  garden. 
He  now  saw  nothing  before  him  but  poverty  and  ruin; 
his  last  reliance,  the  garden  of  his  forefathers,  was  to  be 
laid  waste,  and  what  then  was  to  become  of  his  poor 
wife  and  child.? 

His  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  they  followed  the  dutiful 
Amy  out  of  the  room  one  morning.  Dirk  Waldron  was 
seated  beside  him;  Wolfert  grasped  his  hand,  pointed 
after  his  daughter,  and,  for  the  first  time  since  his  ill- 
ness, broke  the  silence  he  had  maintained. 

"I  am  going!"  said  he,  shaking  his  head  feebly,  "and 
when  I  am  gone — my  poor  daughter " 

"Leave  her  to  me,  father!"  said  Dirk,  manfully — 
"I'll  take  care  of  her!" 

Wolfert  looked  up  in  the  face  of  the  cheery,  strapping 
youngster,  and  saw  there  was  none  better  able  to  take 
care  of  a  woman. 

"Enough,"  said  he — "she  is  yours! — and  now  fetch 
me  a  lawyer — let  me  make  my  will  and  die." 

The  lawyer  was  brought — a  dapper,  bustling,  round- 
headed  little  man,  Roorback  (or  Rollebuck  as  it  was 


286  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

pronounced)  by  name.  At  the  sight  of  him  the  women 
broke  into  loud  lamentations,  for  they  looked  upon  the 
signing  of  a  will  as  the  signing  of  a  death  warrant. 
Wolfcrt  made  a  feeble  motion  for  them  to  be  silent. 
Poor  Amy  buried  her  face  and  her  grief  in  the  bed- 
curtain.  Dame  Webber  resumed  her  knitting  to  hide 
her  distress,  which  betrayed  itself,  however,  in  a  pel- 
lucid tear,  which  trickled  silently  down,  and  hung  at 
the  end  of  her  peaked  nose;  while  the  cat,  the  only 
unconcerned  member  of  the  family,  played  with  the 
good  dame's  ball  of  worsted,  as  it  rolled  about  the 
floor. 

Wolfert  lay  on  his  back,  his  nightcap  drawn  over  his 
forehead;  his  eyes  closed;  his  whole  visage  the  picture 
of  death.  He  begged  the  lawyer  to  be  brief,  for  he  felt 
his  end  approaching,  and  that  he  had  no  time  to  lose. 
The  lawyer  nibbed  his  pen,  spread  out  his  paper,  and 
prepared  to  write. 

"I  give  and  bequeath,"  said  Wolfert,  faintly,  "my 
small  farm " 

"What — all!"  exclaimed  the  lawyer. 

Wolfert  half  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  upon  the 
lawyer. 

"Yes— all,"  said  he. 

"What!  all  that  great  patch  of  land  with  cabbages 
and  sunflowers,  which  the  corporation  is  just  going  to 
run  a  main  street  through.^" 

"The  same,"  said  Wolfert,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  and 
sinking  back  upon  his  pillow. 

"I  wish  him  joy  that  inherits  it!"  said  the  little 
lawyer,  chuckling  and  rubbing  his  hands  involuntarily. 


Golden  Dreams  287 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Wolfert,  again  opening 
his  eyes. 

"That  he'll  be  one  of  the  richest  men  in  the  place!" 
cried  little  Rollebuck. 

The  expiring  Wolfert  seemed  to  step  back  from  the 
threshold  of  existence;  his  eyes  again  lighted  up;  he 
raised  himself  in  his  bed,  shoved  back  his  red  worsted 
nightcap,  and  stared  broadly  at  the  lawyer. 

"You  don't  say  so!"  exclaimed  he. 

"Faith,  but  I  do!"  rejoined  the  other.  "Why,  when 
that  great  field  and  that  huge  meadow  come  to  be  laid 
out  in  streets,  and  cut  up  into  snug  building  lots — why, 
whoever  owns  it  need  not  pull  off  his  hat  to  the 
patroon!" 

"Say  you  so.'*"  cried  Wolfert,  half  thrusting  one  leg 
out  of  bed,  "why,  then  I  think  I'll  not  make  my  will 
yet!" 

To  the  surprise  of  everybody  the  dying  man  actually 
recovered.  The  vital  spark,  which  had  glimmered 
faintly  in  the  socket,  received  fresh  fuel  from  the  oil  of 
gladness  which  the  little  lawyer  poured  into  his  soul. 
It  once  more  burnt  up  into  a  flame. 

Give  physic  to  the  heart,  ye  who  would  revive  the 
body  of  a  spirit-broken  man!  In  a  few  days  Wolfert 
left  his  room;  in  a  few  days  more  his  table  was  covered 
with  deeds,  plans  of  streets,  and  building  lots.  Little 
Rollebuck  was  constantly  with  him,  his  right-hand  man 
and  adviser;  and  instead  of  making  his  will,  assisted  in 
the  more  agreeable  task  of  making  his  fortune.  In  fact 
Wolfert  Webber  was  one  of  those  worthy  Dutch  burgh- 
ers of  the  Manhattoes  whose  fortunes  have  been  made. 


288  Stories  of  the  Hudson 

in  a  manner,  in  spite  of  themselves;  who  have  tena- 
ciously held  on  to  their  hereditary  acres,  raising  turnips 
and  cabbages  about  the  skirts  of  the  city,  hardly  able 
to  make  both  ends  meet,  until  the  corporation  has 
cruelly  driven  streets  through  their  abodes,  and  they 
have  suddenly  awakened  out  of  their  lethargy,  and,  to 
their  astonishment,  found  themselves  rich  men. 

Before  many  months  had  elapsed,  a  great  bustling 
street  passed  through  the  very  centre  of  the  Webber 
garden,  just  where  Wolfert  had  dreamed  of  finding  a 
treasure.  His  golden  dream  was  accomplished;  he  did 
indeed  find  an  unlooked-for  source  of  wealth;  for,  when 
his  paternal  lands  were  distributed  into  building  lots, 
and  rented  out  to  safe  tenants,  instead  of  producing  a 
paltry  crop  of  cabbages,  they  returned  him  an  abundant 
crop  of  rents;  insomuch  that  on  quarter-day,  it  was 
a  goodly  sight  to  see  his  tenants  knocking  at  his  door, 
from  morning  till  night,  each  with  a  little  round-bellied 
bag  of  money,  a  golden  produce  of  the  soil. 

The  ancient  mansion  of  his  forefathers  was  still  kept 
up;  but  instead  of  being  a  little  yellow-fronted  Dutch 
house  in  a  garden,  it  now  stood  boldly  in  the  midst  of 
a  street,  the  grand  house  of  the  neighborhood;  for 
Wolfert  enlarged  it  with  a  wing  on  each  side,  and  a 
cupola  or  tea-room  on  top,  where  he  might  climb  up 
and  smoke  his  pipe  in  hot  weather;  and  in  the  course 
of  time  the  whole  mansion  was  overrun  by  the  chubby- 
faced  progency  of  Amy  Webber  and  Dirk  Waldron. 

As  Wolfert  waxed  old,  and  rich,  and  corpulent,  he 
also  set  up  a  great  gingerbread-colored  carriage,  drawn 
by  a  pair  of  black  Flanders  mares,  with  tails  that  swept 


Golden  Dreams  289 

the  ground;  and  to  commemorate  the  origin  of  his 
greatness,  he  had  for  his  crest,  a  full-blown  cabbage 
painted  on  the  panels,  with  the  pithy  motto  ^tllefii  i^opf, 
that  is  to  say,  all  head;  meaning  thereby  that  he  had 
risen  by  sheer  headwork. 

To  fill  the  measure  of  his  greatness,  in  the  fulness  of 
time  the  renowned  Ramm  Rapelye  slept  with  his 
fathers,  and  Wolfert  Webber  succeeded  to  the  leather- 
bottomed  armchair,  in  the  inn  parlor  at  Corlaer's 
Hook;  where  he  long  reigned  greatly  honored  and 
respected,  insomuch  that  he  was  never  known  to  tell  a 
story  without  its  being  believed,  nor  to  utter  a  joke 
without  its  being  laughed  at. 


(p 


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